Miracle Mops - S.H. x Reader
summary: a waiting-room laugh, an unfortunate mispronunciation, and Steve Harrington finally meeting his match in terrible movie taste.
-
Hawkins Memorial at night has a smell all its own - bleach and old coffee, antiseptic layered over something tired and human. The fluorescent lights buzz like they’re trying to keep themselves awake. The vending machine hums in the corner like it’s plotting.
You’re not supposed to be here this late.
Not really.
Candy stripers are supposed to be daytime-soft; smiling volunteers, directions given with bright voices, water pitchers refilled, magazines re-stacked, the gentle choreography of making a place less scary. Your uniform - red striped pinafore over white - feels almost ridiculous after 10PM, like you’re a prop somebody forgot to put away.
But you’re still here anyway, long after you could’ve clocked out and gone home.
You tell yourself it’s because the hospital always needs help. Because there’s always a spill to wipe, a blanket to fetch, because you’re being responsible.
Except, if you’re honest, being useful feels good in a way that’s hard to let go of. Addictive, almost.
So you linger. You fold towels. You do the little tasks the night staff appreciates but never asks for, chasing that small, bright hit of I did something. I mattered.
The waiting room TV is on low volume, flickering through the local station’s late-night lineup. A commercial comes on - something earnest and idiotic about a “miracle mop” that can apparently clean spills, shine floors, and maybe save your marriage too.
You’re halfway through sorting a stack of outdated pamphlets when you hear it.
A laugh.
Not a polite one. Not a cough-disguised chuckle. A real laugh - sharp and surprised, like it escapes before it can be strangled.
You look up.
There’s a guy slouched in one of the chairs, legs stretched out like he owns the place, even though the rest of him looks like he doesn’t belong. He’s wearing a jacket too light for the season and appears desperately bored, restless in that way people get when they’re waiting on someone else’s timeline. And his hair is - well. The kind of hair that makes you want to ask what brand of shampoo he uses.
He clamps his mouth shut the moment he realizes he’s made noise.
You should go back to your pamphlets. You should mind your business. You should be a responsible volunteer in a hospital after-hours and not start conversations with strangers who have suspiciously perfect hair.
Instead, you let your eyes dart to the TV and back.
“Careful,” you murmur. “Once you laugh at one of those things, it’s over. Next thing you know you’ll be ordering one.”
The guy stills, like he’s been caught red-handed, then he turns his head toward you.
And the second his face hits the light properly, your stomach drops.
Steve Harrington.
Not a stranger at all - just someone you used to know from a distance, back when the hallways felt like their own ecosystem and he was at the center of it.
King Steve. The hair, the confidence, the name everyone knew even if they’d never said it to his face. You were a few years below him, close enough to recognize him instantly, far enough that he’d never have had a reason to learn your name.
He looks… different now.
Not in a way you can neatly describe. Just… less polished around the edges. Like something has happened that sanded down the shine and left something quieter underneath.
For a beat he just blinks at you, surprised that he's being addressed by someone in a candy cane uniform.
Then he exhales a laugh and turns a little further in his seat, looking at you like he’s amused you’re calling him out. “So that’s how it works? One laugh and I’m doomed?”
“Oh yeah,” you say gravely, nodding at the screen. “First a laugh. Then a ‘limited time offer’. Then you’re explaining to your friends why you needed the deluxe bundle.”
He shifts forward, interest snagged despite himself, like your stupid comment has lured his attention in the way a shiny object lures a crow.
He stands and stretches, trying to look casual and failing in a way that somehow makes him more approachable.
He walks toward the desk one slow step at a time.
Up close, his eyes are warm. Tired, but focused on you like you’re a puzzle he doesn’t mind spending time on.
“I’m Steve,” he says, and immediately looks like he regrets how formal it sounds.
You don’t answer right away.
Because you’re watching him, and it’s strange - seeing Steve Harrington look unsure of how to stand in a conversation. King Steve never introduced himself to anybody. People just… knew.
“I know,” you say finally.
His eyebrows jump. “You do?”
You tilt your head, letting a small, knowing smile tug at your mouth. “Hawkins High,” you remind him. “You were… kind of hard to miss.”
A flush creeps up his neck, and for a second he looks almost embarrassed, like he’s not sure whether to apologize for his past self or pretend it never happened.
His gaze flicks over your face again, searching - trying, genuinely trying - and it makes something in your chest soften despite yourself.
You save him before he can tie himself in knots.
“It’s okay if you don’t remember me,” you say, keeping it easy. “I was a couple of years below you.”
He blinks, and then his mouth tightens like the words hit somewhere tender.
“No - no, I do,” he insists, a little too fast. He leans forward, squinting like the memory is just out of reach. “You were… you -” He breaks off with a frustrated huff, like he knows he’s not going to be able to bluff his way through it.
His gaze drops for half a second, then he looks back up, and the next words come out plain.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I was… kind of -” He swallows. “I was an asshole back then.”
The words hang there, unexpectedly honest.
“Don’t worry about it,” you say, and you keep your smile easy so he can borrow it. “Really.”
He clears his throat, eyes flicking down to your uniform like he’s trying to latch onto something safe. “So,” he says, nodding once, “you’re a… candy stripper, then.”
For half a second, your brain buffers the word.
Then you laugh - quick and startled, like it slips out before you can stop it.
Steve freezes.
His face changes in real time. Confusion, then horror, then a full-body realization that makes his ears go red first and his throat follow.
“I-” he chokes, and you can actually see him replaying the sentence in his head, every word a small disaster. “I didn’t - I meant - I wasn’t -”
“It’s striper,” you say, still smiling, merciful. “As in, like… stripes.”
Steve squeezes his eyes shut for a brief moment, like he’s trying to vanish on the spot. “Right. Yeah. Stri-per.” He opens them again, looking at you like he’s just been personally betrayed by the English language. “Jesus.”
“I’m not -” you pause, because you’re enjoying this too much, “- that kind of volunteer.”
Steve drags a hand down his face. He makes a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a laugh, and you take mercy before he combusts.
“So,” you add, easy, like you’re changing the subject for both your sakes, “are you here for someone?”
Steve exhales, grateful for the escape route. “Yeah,” he says, dropping his hand. “Waiting for my friend.”
“Late-night hospital visits,” you murmur. “That’s either very sweet or very concerning.”
He huffs a short laugh. “It’s probably both.”
A beat, then he nods toward the hallway. “She’s visiting one of you -” his mouth twitches, like he’s daring himself, “- one of you candy stripers.”
You smile, pleased. “Oh? Who?”
“Vickie,” he says.
“Vickie?” you echo, a little surprised, and then it clicks into place. “Oh - so your friend is… She's got lightish brown hair, shoulder length?”
Steve pauses for half a second, then “Yeah,” he says, fond and resigned at the same time. “That’s her.”
“I’ve seen her around.” You tilt your head, thinking. “She… visits loudly.”
Steve laughs, real this time. “Yep, definitely Robin.”
There’s a beat where the conversation settles into something unexpectedly easy. Steve looks at you again, like he’s filing away new information with more care than he means to.
“You work with Vickie, then?” he asks.
“Sometimes,” you say. “She’s great. I’m mostly on pediatrics, though.”
Steve’s eyebrows lift. “Pediatrics?” he echoes, like the word catches on something. “That’s like… kids, right?”
“Yeah,” you say, and you can’t help the warmth that creeps in. “I just -” you shrug, suddenly self-conscious about sounding earnest in front of Steve Harrington of all people, “I like helping them. They’re scared, and they don’t always know how to say it. Sometimes they just need someone to… be normal with them for a minute.”
Steve’s smile fades into something gentler. Something thoughtful.
“That’s…” he says, almost to himself. “That’s really nice. I bet they’re lucky to have you.”
You look back at him, and for a second the waiting room feels less fluorescent. Less like a place people pass through and more like a place where something might actually start.
You open your mouth to say something else; something small, a joke, a question.
Then the double doors swing open.
Robin steps out like a bolt of lightning wearing a denim jacket.
She’s tall, wiry, and bright-eyed in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine. There’s a faint flush on her cheeks, her hair slightly out of place like she’s been running her hands through it - or someone else has.
When she spots Steve, her face breaks open into something easy and genuine, relief threaded through the smile like an aftertaste.
And then her eyes slide to you.
To the space between you and Steve.
To Steve leaning on the counter like he’s been there awhile.
Robin’s eyebrows climb.
Her mouth quirks like she’s just found a spare tool she didn’t know she had.
“Steve,” she says, dragging his name out. “There you are. I was starting to think you died of boredom.”
Steve straightens, suddenly aware of his limbs again. “I - no. I was just -”
Robin’s eyes slide back to you. “And you are…?”
You give her your name, and she repeats it like she’s committing it to memory on purpose.
Robin looks between you and Steve again like she’s watching a movie only she understands.
“Okay,” she says, too brightly. “Let’s go. Steve, chauffeur time.”
Steve nods, clearing his throat. “Yeah. Sure.”
You watch them turn toward the exit - Robin already talking, hands moving like she’s conducting an invisible orchestra.
Steve follows, but not completely. His gaze flicks back to you, and his steps slow, like he’s moving on a delay.
You don’t know why you do it. Maybe you want to make him laugh again. Maybe you just want to leave something behind, a little hook in the fabric of the night.
“Try not to impulse-buy any miracle mops on the way home, Steve.”
Steve’s mouth opens, then closes, like he can’t decide whether to defend himself or laugh again. The smile he gives you is slow and a little helpless.
“No promises,” he says, and his voice is warmer than before. “Those things are persuasive.”
Robin is already holding the door open, watching. Filing. Smirking.
Steve gives you a quick, awkward half-wave and disappears into the night.
The waiting room TV keeps flickering through its late-night lineup - some new commercial, just as earnest and ridiculous as the last.
But the air feels different, like something has shifted.
Like you’ve stepped onto a thread you didn’t know was there.
-
A week isn’t a long time.
It’s barely long enough for the warmth of a stupid shared joke to cool. Barely long enough for you to stop half-expecting to look up from a stack of towels and find Steve Harrington slouched in the waiting room again, laughing at something he’ll pretend he didn’t laugh at.
But you don’t see him.
Not once.
You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.
You tell yourself you met a guy you used to know in passing, you talked for maybe five minutes, and life moved on.
But Hawkins doesn’t let life move on.
Instead, it starts doing that thing where it pretends everything is fine while quietly stacking kindling in the corners.
It begins with the Wheelers - people call them a “nice family” like niceness should’ve been armor - brought in with injuries that don’t match any story anyone can say out loud. Broken glass, scared neighbors, wounds that look wrong in the bright hospital light.
The next day it’s the military - an “accident,” then a “training mishap,” then a “gas leak,” depending on who’s talking and how afraid they are.
Men in uniform arrive with ash on their faces and that stiff, stunned look people get when they’re trying not to feel what they’ve just lived through.
The staff works around it, brisk and tight-lipped. You fold, fetch, guide, refill, smile. You do what you always do when a place gets heavy: you make yourself useful and you keep your voice normal.
And then, on another quiet night - quiet in that suspicious way, where the halls feel too still - the doors open and they come in.
A group of vaguely familiar faces that do not belong together in any normal version of Hawkins: teens with dirt ground into their skin, moving like their bodies are running on fumes, Robin with her jaw set hard enough to crack teeth, and Steve Harrington - who looks like he’s been dragged through the edge of the sky.
Torn clothes. Blood at his hairline. Eyes too wide, too alert, like the danger followed him right through the doors.
For a second, the whole world narrows to the last time you saw him, when he was laughing at a miracle mop.
The Steve Harrington standing in front of you now looks like he belongs to an entirely different universe.
He lifts his head.
His gaze sweeps the lobby - fast, assessing - and then it catches on you like a snag. You see the exact moment recognition hits. The brief freeze. The flicker of something almost relieved in his eyes, quickly buried under whatever wire-tight thing is holding him upright.
Your feet move before your brain finishes processing. You cross the lobby in a straight line, clipboard abandoned somewhere behind you, your heart thumping like it’s trying to outrun your body.
“Steve,” you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel. You aim for light, something normal he can grab onto. “You look… like you’ve had a busy evening.”
A short breath leaves him, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t have anywhere to land. “Yeah,” he says, and it sounds like an understatement that could swallow the room.
Up close, you can see the grit ground into his sleeves, the dried streaks of blood along his temple. You can see the way his hands keep flexing, opening and closing like he’s still holding onto something invisible.
Your fingers hover near his sleeve - close enough to guide, not quite touching yet. “Come on,” you say, softer. “Let me get you cleaned up before you bleed all over the floor and I have to go buy one of those miracle mops.”
That earns you the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. But it’s something.
“I’m not -” he starts, automatic denial, but it falls apart when he shifts and you catch the tight hitch of his breath, the way his shoulders lock up for half a second, like moving hurts more than he wants to admit.
“You are,” you cut in gently, not unkind. “And it’s fine. Just - come with me.”
Steve hesitates, eyes flicking past you to the group he came in with, he looks like he’s counting them without meaning to. Like if he steps away, something might slip.
Robin catches it immediately. She steps closer, close enough to be heard without making a scene, and nudges his elbow toward you with a firm, familiar sort of gentleness.
“Go,” she says, simple as that.
You catch his sleeve lightly, careful of the torn fabric and whatever’s underneath it, and guide him towards an open exam room.
The way he's moving is that of a man held together by willpower and adrenaline, shoulders tight, jaw clenched, eyes flicking to corners and doorways like he expects something to leap out of the beige paint.
The fluorescent lights catch on the damage in sharp, unkind detail.
There’s a cut at his hairline, blood dried dark against his skin and tangled near his temple. Another on his jaw, angry and fresh enough that it’s still deciding whether to swell or split again.
His clothes are torn in places that don’t make sense - rips that look grabbed rather than snagged.
He’s breathing a little too shallow.
Like breathing deep might hurt.
Or like breathing deep might make something real.
The door clicks shut behind you, and Steve’s head snaps toward the sound so fast it’s almost frightening. He forces it still a second later, like he’s embarrassed you caught him being… whatever this is.
Wired. Wound. Ready.
You swallow the shock of seeing him like this down where it belongs - behind your teeth, under your tongue - and reach for the only thing that’s ever made a difference in a room like this:
Normal.
Not pretend nothing’s wrong normal. Not everything is fine normal. The other kind. The kind you give scared people when the world is too big and their bodies are too small to hold it all.
“Okay,” you say, voice light on purpose as you gesture to the bed. “Sit.”
Steve hesitates again, like he doesn’t want his back to the door.
You pretend not to notice.
He sits anyway, careful and stiff, the paper on the exam bed crinkling under him like a whisper.
You wash your hands. The soap smells harsh and clean, and it’s a relief - something simple, something that behaves. You dry them, grab a tray, start laying out supplies with the steady rhythm of routine; antiseptic wipes, gauze pads, tape, butterfly strips, a small tube of antibiotic ointment.
Steve watches your hands the way people watch someone disarming a bomb.
You step closer, cotton pad in hand. “Forehead first,” you warn gently. “This is gonna sting.”
His shoulders tense like he’s bracing for impact.
“Hold still,” you add, softer, and lean in.
The antiseptic smell blooms sharp as you clean the cut at his hairline. His breath catches. His fingers curl hard against the paper on the bed, the crinkle loud in the small room. He flinches once, then clamps down on it like flinching is failure.
You don’t comment. You just keep going, methodical, careful.
“Doing okay?” you ask, light but attentive.
He nods too quickly. “Yeah. Fine.”
The word fine rolls off his tongue like a lie he’s used too many times.
You tape gauze into place, smoothing it down with your fingertips. The contact is brief, clinical, and still you feel how rigid he is beneath it - wired tight, like he’s been wound and left to hum.
You shift to his jaw next, tilting his chin slightly with a practiced touch. His gaze flicks to your hand like he’s not sure what to do with gentleness anymore.
“This one’s going to look dramatic tomorrow,” you say, dabbing carefully along the cut. “You’ll have that whole… action hero thing going on.”
He lets out a short breath that’s almost a laugh and almost a scoff. “Great. Just what I always wanted."
“Don't worry,” you say, neat and careful with the gauze. “It's a good look on you - rugged, handsome hero.”
His eyes flick to yours again, and this time they linger.
For a second he looks almost caught out, like he doesn’t know where to put the compliment. His mouth opens like he’s going to play it off, then closes again. The tips of his ears go faintly pink.
“Yeah?” he manages, low and a little rough, as if the word surprises him.
“Yeah,” you confirm, pressing the last strip down. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
That earns you the smallest curve at the corner of his mouth - like he’s trying not to smile and losing.
His gaze drops to his hands, and his shoulders loosen by a fraction.
A slow exhale leaves him, long enough to be real. And when he breathes back in, it’s steadier, like your teasing has coaxed him one step farther from the edge.
You move down his arms, cleaning and dressing scrapes on his knuckles and forearm. He watches your hands with something like disbelief - like he can’t quite accept that someone is touching him only to help.
The room is quiet except for the buzz of the lights and the faint muffled noise from the hall.
Steve swallows.
Then, as if testing the air for humor, he says, “So. You’re still… striping, then?”
You pause, cotton pad in hand, and look up slowly.
He’s watching you, eyes flickering with a cautious spark - teasing, but mostly at his own expense.
You let your mouth curve. “Still striping,” you confirm, amused. “Not… The other thing.”
Steve presses his lips together, shoulders shaking once with a suppressed laugh. “Right. Yeah. Good.”
Then he glances at your hands - at the gauze, the tape, the way you move like you’ve done this before - and his brows pull together, half curious, half impressed.
“I didn’t realize this was part of the job description,” he says, like he’s genuinely trying to picture the pamphlet. “You know. Patching up battered strangers in the middle of the night.”
“It’s not,” you admit, taping gauze around his knuckles. “Technically I’m supposed to be refilling water cups, handing out directions, kind of… haunting the halls with a smile.”
Steve’s mouth twitches. “So what - this is just… extra credit?”
You snort. “Pretty much. I’m starting a training program soon,” you say lightly. “Nursing. So, really, you’re kind of doing me a favor.”
Steve blinks. “By bleeding?”
“By letting me play nurse,” you correct, smile tugging. “It’s good to get some hands-on experience.”
The joke lands. You feel it in the way his hands unclench further. The way his knee stops bouncing.
You keep working downward - top to bottom, like a ritual - checking for anything else that needs a bandage.
The TV plays quietly above you, some channel that’s doing a late-night movie lineup. Bright laughter spills from it in canned bursts, the kind of sound that feels almost indecent inside a hospital.
Steve’s gaze flicks up again, drawn despite himself.
A familiar logo flashes across the screen, followed by a scene full of chaotic, slapstick energy, the kind of humor that’s half confidence and half disaster.
Steve lets out a short laugh before he can catch it.
It’s not as sharp as the miracle mop laugh was. It’s softer. Like it comes from somewhere deeper.
You glance up at the TV and then back at him. “Movie Madness?” you say, amused.
Steve’s eyes go wide for half a second, caught again, then he groans, embarrassed. “It’s - I didn’t -”
You give him a look that’s all innocent judgment. “So. National Lampoon and miracle mops. I think I'm starting to understand your sense of humour.”
His ears pink immediately. “It’s not -” He gestures vaguely at the screen, flustered. “It’s just… dumb.”
“That’s what makes it great,” you say simply.
“You… You like this stuff?” he asks, still trying to sound casual, but there’s a hopeful thread under it.
You snort. “I’m not announcing it on posters.”
Steve’s eyes narrow, playful. “So you do.”
You press another strip of tape down on his forearm with exaggerated secrecy. “Fine,” you admit, lowering your voice like you’re confessing a crime. “I do,” you admit, because it is, and because you can feel him unwinding a little more with every second you don’t treat him like he’s made of glass. “But for the record, Animal House is better.”
Steve stares at you like you’ve just spoken his name in a language only he understands.
Then his whole face changes; brightening, disbelieving, delighted. “No way.”
“Yes way,” you say, and you hate how happy you are to see him happy. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“I’m sorry,” Steve says, but he’s not sorry at all. “It’s just -” He laughs again, softer. “Robin acts like I’m insane for loving it.”
“Robin is wrong,” you reply, smoothing the bandage edges. “It’s stupid and perfect. Like… most of the best things.”
Steve’s gaze holds yours. There’s something open in it now, something that wasn’t there when he first walked in. The wired, haunted edge has dulled. His shoulders have lowered. His breathing is slower.
It’s like you’re watching him come back into his own body.
His eyes flick back to the TV briefly, laughter still lingering in the corners of his mouth like it doesn’t know where to go. He looks at the screen for a second like he’s borrowing it for courage, then back at you - careful, casual, like he’s trying not to make it obvious that he wants to keep talking.
“Okay,” he says, clearing his throat. “I - this is important. What do you think about Star Wars?”
You don’t even have to think.
“The one with the teddy bears,” you say immediately. “Best one.”
Steve freezes.
Then his face cracks open into pure, disbelieving delight. “Yes,” he says, like the word gets yanked out of him before he can stop it. “Yeah - that’s what I said.”
You grin, pleased. “Ewoks are cute. Iconic.”
Steve’s mouth opens, shuts. He shakes his head once, still smiling like he doesn’t trust it. “You’re…” he starts, and it sounds dangerously sincere - like he’s about to say something that doesn’t have a joke wrapped around it.
He stops himself at the last second, clears his throat, and scrambles for safer ground.
“It’s -” he says, trying for casual, failing charmingly. “It’s good to finally meet someone who has… great taste.”
You snort, tipping your head as you press the last edge of tape down. “I don’t think most people would agree.”
Steve’s smile tugs wider anyway, like that only makes it better.
You peel your gloves off and toss them, then give his bandage a final, gentle pat - more reassurance than medical necessity. “All right,” you declare, stepping back. “You’re all good to go. No more heroic bleeding in public.”
He exhales, steady now, and the sound almost feels like a victory. “Good.”
“And,” you add, reaching for the tray to start packing everything away, “try not to have any more… busy nights for a while, okay? I’m running out of tape.”
Steve huffs a quiet laugh, eyes dropping to the floor for a second like he’s embarrassed by how much he needed this, by how much it helped.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll… try.”
There’s a pause, softer than the rest of the conversation, the kind that settles when the joking runs out and what’s underneath peeks through. Steve looks at you, really looks, and something in his expression gentles.
“Thank you,” he says, and this time it isn’t casual. It lands careful and sincere, like he's thanking you for more than just patching him up.
You keep your gaze on the tray so he doesn’t have to watch your face react. “You’re welcome,” you say quietly, sliding gauze back into its wrapper.
Steve stands. The exam bed paper crinkles under him. He heads for the door, slow, and you can feel him hesitate behind you like a shadow deciding whether to step into the light.
You hear the soft scrape of the door handle turning.
Then - “Hey.”
You turn your head slightly. “Yeah?”
Steve’s hand stays on the doorframe, like he needs something solid to hold onto. His mouth opens, and this time words actually make it out before he can catch them.
“Do you think -” he starts, then stops like he’s hit a wall. He swallows hard, eyes flicking to yours and holding for half a second too long. “I mean, would you -”
The question hangs there, unfinished and terrifyingly close to real.
His grip tightens on the doorframe. You can see him hesitate - see the instinct to step forward battling the instinct to retreat.
Then he exhales, sharp, and the moment folds in on itself.
“Just…” he clears his throat, voice a little rougher now. “Thanks. Again.”
Your chest tightens, but you keep your smile easy for him. “Anytime, Harrington.”
Steve’s lips twitch, like he wants to smile properly and doesn’t trust it. “Bye,” he says, awkward and gentle.
“Bye,” you answer.
He slips out, and the door clicks shut behind him.
You turn back to the tray, to the antiseptic smell, to the ordinary clink of metal, but the room feels different now - charged with the thing he almost said and didn’t.
And you can’t decide which part lingers more.
The laughter… or the hesitation.
-
Steve’s house is too quiet.
It isn’t the peaceful kind of quiet, either - the kind you earn after a long day. It’s the hollow kind, where every creak of settling wood sounds like a footstep he didn’t invite in.
The glow from the TV throws a weak puddle of light across the coffee table. Steve sits at the edge of the couch like he’s waiting for someone to tell him he’s allowed to lean back. One hand keeps drifting to the bandage on his forehead, fingers pressing near the edge like he’s checking whether it’s still real.
Robin watches him in silence for a beat too long.
Something in her expression changes, a quiet click, like she’s done letting him pretend.
“Okay,” she begins, voice low, all the extra noise stripped away. “So. I’m gonna say something, and you’re not allowed to do that thing where you make it a joke.”
Steve blinks, caught. “I don’t -”
Robin lifts a finger. “You absolutely do.”
She leans forward, elbows on her knees, and for once she doesn’t fill the space with jokes. She watches him the way she watches the world right before something bad happens; sharp, protective, refusing to look away.
“I saw you,” she says.
Steve’s shoulders lift a fraction. “You always see me.”
“I saw you with her,” Robin clarifies, and the word is quiet but weighted.
Steve’s mouth goes dry. He tries to laugh it off and doesn’t quite manage. “Robin -”
“Nope.” Robin cuts him off with a single, decisive syllable. “Let me finish. You walked into that exam room looking like you were about to chew through a wall. Like if anyone breathed wrong you were gonna -” she makes a vague exploding gesture “- do whatever stupid hero thing you normally do. And then you came out…”
Her gaze narrows, softening at the same time.
“You came out lighter,” she says, like it’s the most damning evidence she’s ever collected. “Like somebody took a brick off your chest.”
Steve looks down at his hands. The skin around his nails is torn; there’s dried blood he missed when he washed. “She just patched me up.”
Robin makes a sound of disgust. “Steve. Please. I have eyes.”
He shifts, uncomfortable. “It wasn’t -”
“It doesn’t have to be anything yet,” Robin says, voice suddenly gentler. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
Steve’s throat works. He keeps his gaze fixed on the floor like it’s safer there.
Robin inhales slowly, like she’s forcing herself not to bulldoze him. Then she says, quieter:
“You’re allowed to want something now.”
Steve’s head snaps up.
Robin holds his gaze. Her eyes are bright in a way that doesn’t match her tone, like she’s balancing on the edge of anger and love.
“You’re allowed,” she repeats, “to want a future. A real one. Not just… surviving. Not just being the guy who shows up when everything’s horrible.”
Steve’s mouth opens and closes, like there are too many words trying to get out at once and none of them feel safe.
He finally manages, roughly, “You don’t get it.”
Robin’s expression goes razor-sharp. “Try me.”
Steve exhales, shaky. “She’s normal,” he says, the word tasting like both longing and warning. “She doesn’t - she doesn’t know about any of it. She doesn’t know what we - what I -”
He looks away. His voice drops.
“She doesn’t need someone like me showing up and ruining her life.”
Robin stares at him like he’s said something personally offensive.
“Stop,” she says. “Stop doing that. Stop acting like you’re contagious.”
Steve laughs once, humorless. “Robin -”
“Steve.” Robin’s voice goes flat, deadly calm in a way that means she’s serious. “You don’t get to martyr yourself out of being happy.”
He flinches like the word hits a bruise.
Robin continues, relentless but not cruel. “You think you’re protecting people by locking yourself in a mental closet, but all you’re doing is punishing yourself because you don’t know what to do when the world isn’t ending.”
Steve’s hands curl into fists in his lap. “I’m trying to keep people safe.”
Robin’s gaze softens again. “You already did that,” she says quietly. “Over and over and over. You did your job, Steve. You get to want something that isn’t pain.”
Steve swallows hard. His eyes look tired as if he’s been braced for catastrophe so long he doesn’t know how to un-brace.
He rubs his face with one hand, dragging his palm down over his mouth like he can physically wipe away the vulnerability. “So what do you want me to do about it?”
Robin doesn’t hesitate. “Ask her out.”
Steve’s laugh is small and miserable. “That’s insane.”
Robin squints at him. “Steve. You ask girls out like it’s cardio. Like if you don’t go on three dates a week your heart will stop.”
“That’s -” he starts, then stalls, because she’s not wrong. He exhales, sharper. “Different.”
Robin’s mouth quirks. “Different how?”
Steve’s gaze drops to his hands, thumb worrying at the edge of his bandage. “Because that stuff is easy,” he says. “It’s just… a date. You talk, you laugh, you pretend you’re not weird, you go home.” He huffs a breath. “They’re nice. It’s fine. It’s -” He falters, like the words won’t behave. “It’s never felt right, like it could be… more.”
Robin’s expression softens, but her voice stays firm. “But this one feels like it might?”
Steve doesn’t answer right away. He just exhales, slow, like he’s letting the idea settle somewhere it hasn’t been allowed to live.
“Yeah,” he says, and it sounds like surrender in the best way.
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. He glances up, and the next words slip out - soft, pleased, like a proof he’s been carrying around:
“She likes Animal House.”
Robin blinks.
Then she bursts out laughing, loud and delighted, like the universe just handed her a gift. “No.”
Steve’s mouth twitches, defensive. “Yes.”
Robin points at him, wheezing. “Okay - wow. Well, congratulations, Steve. She’s not flawless - she’s got questionable taste - but it’s the same questionable taste as you. Which is, tragically, perfect.”
Steve looks at her mildly offended, but fond.
Then she leans back, satisfied, like she’s solved a puzzle. “I’m just saying,” she adds, voice turning lightly triumphant, “you two can sit around and watch dumb movies together and laugh at the same stupid parts, and the world won’t end because you dared to enjoy something.”
The last line lands softer than the rest - like she didn’t mean to make it gentle, but it slipped through anyway.
Steve’s throat works. His gaze drops, and for a moment the joking feels like a blanket draped over something raw.
Then, after a long moment, he nods once. Barely.
“Okay,” he says, and his voice shakes like he’s stepping off a cliff. “Okay. I’ll - I’ll ask her.”
Robin’s mouth quirks, vindicated in that unmistakable Robin way. “Good,” she says, like she’s been waiting for him to stop being an idiot for decades.
Steve swallows and stares at the floor, but his shoulders aren’t as tight anymore. The thought of it - walking into the hospital, saying the words out loud - still makes his stomach flip. Still scares him.
But underneath the fear, something small and stubborn sparks to life.
Hope, maybe.
Or just the unfamiliar idea that there might be something after all this - something that isn’t survival. Something that’s his.
-
The pediatric wing smells like crayons and antiseptic, like childhood trying its best to exist in a place that scares even adults.
A cartoon plays softly on the TV in the corner, bright colors and tinny voices. Someone’s taped paper snowflakes to the windows even though it’s a little crooked and too early and no one can agree what season anything is anymore.
You’re halfway down the hall when you hear it - the small, tight sound of someone trying not to cry.
A little boy sits hunched in his bed, knees drawn up under the blanket, eyes fixed stubbornly on a plastic cup of water like it personally betrayed him. His hair sticks up at the back. There’s a bandage on his arm and a storm cloud on his face.
You ease into the room with the practiced softness of someone who’s learned that kids can smell pity like blood in the water.
“Hey,” you say, gently bright. “I heard there was a very serious person in here.”
The boy doesn’t look up. “I’m not serious.”
“Good,” you reply. “Because I’m terrible at serious. I’m trained exclusively in ridiculous.”
That gets a flicker, barely, at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. But the idea of one.
You pull a chair closer and sit sideways on it, making yourself smaller, less threatening. “What’s your name?”
He hesitates. “James.”
“James,” you repeat like it matters. “Okay. James. On a scale of one to ten, how mad are you at the universe right now?”
James shrugs, eyes still down. “A hundred.”
You nod solemnly. “That seems reasonable.”
He finally glances at you, suspicious, curious. “Who are you?”
“I’m -” You pause, then decide on something that sounds official enough to be stupid. You grin. “I’m the Hospital Fun Police.”
James frowns. “Fun police?”
“Yeah,” you say, nodding solemnly. “I patrol the halls to make sure everyone’s having fun.”
James blinks, still suspicious. “How do you do that?”
You lean in, lowering your voice like it’s classified. “I issue citations,” you whisper. “For excessive frowning.”
He snorts, and the sound loosens something in the room.
You lean in slightly, voice dropping conspiratorial. “So what’s the deal? Why are we at a hundred?”
James's shoulders hunch. “I wanna go home.”
Your chest squeezes, but you keep your face steady. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Hospitals stink.”
His eyes dart up again. “They do stink.”
“They smell like sadness and cleaning products,” you agree. “Not a great combo.”
James's mouth twitches again. “And the food is gross.”
“It’s basically a crime,” you say, and he lets out a tiny laugh, quick and surprised.
You’re about to launch into your usual five-minutes-of-normal routine - something about issuing a citation to the hospital food, or how his cup of water looks like it’s plotting - when footsteps sound in the doorway.
You turn.
Steve Harrington stands there holding a bouquet of flowers like they're a weapon he’s not sure how to use.
He’s cleaner than he was the other night, but not by much. The healing cut on his jaw still marks him, a faint line that makes him look sharper. His hair is immaculate though, because of course it is.
The flowers at his side are the safe, grocery-store kind; pretty, generic, and chosen with the exact energy of a guy who panicked in aisle three.
For a second he just stares at you.
And you feel it, that same strange electricity you felt in the triage room, like the air between you has its own pulse.
Steve blinks, like he has to remember how to speak.
“Hi,” he says, too softly for the hallway noise.
Your heart gives one stupid, happy kick.
“Hi,” you reply, rising from the chair. “Steve, what are you -”
James looks between you and Steve. “Who’s that?”
You open your mouth and immediately realize you don’t know what to call him.
Friend feels wrong. Stranger feels wrong. Patient definitely feels wrong.
“This is…” you start, then stall, cheeks warming. “This is Steve.”
Steve steps into the room like he’s trying not to take up space, which is difficult when you have shoulders like his.
James squints at him. “Steve who?”
Steve glances at you like he’s asking permission.
You find yourself smiling despite your nerves. “Steve Harrington,” you supply.
James's eyes widen a little. “That’s a cool name.”
Steve’s mouth quirks. “Yeah? Thanks.”
James points at the flowers. “Are those for her?”
Steve startles like he forgot the bouquet exists in his own hand. “Uh -” His ears go pink. “Maybe.”
James's gaze sharpens with sudden, merciless kid logic. “So you like her.”
You choke softly on air.
Steve looks like he might pass out.
“I -” he begins, then tries again. “I’m just… saying thank you.”
James's eyes narrow, wholly unconvinced.
You press your lips together hard to stop yourself laughing.
Steve clears his throat and looks at James like he’s switching into a mode you didn’t know he had. “Hey,” he says, voice warmer, lower. “What’s going on, man?”
James shrugs, staring at his blanket again. “I’m stuck here.”
Steve nods like he understands. Like he really does. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s the worst.”
James peeks up. “You've been stuck here?”
Steve hesitates, just a flicker, then shrugs lightly. “A few times. Not my favorite hobby.”
James's mouth twitches. “What is your favorite hobby?”
Steve’s eyes flick to you for half a second, then back, like he’s checking whether you’re still there, still watching. “Honestly?” he says. “Making people laugh.”
James looks skeptical. “Can you do it?”
Steve’s grin turns cautious, as if he’s suddenly aware he’s auditioning. “Depends,” he says. “What do you find funny?”
James's shoulders lift in a small shrug, the sadness still clinging to him like a blanket he can’t shake off. “I don’t know.”
Steve nods like that’s a perfectly reasonable answer. He doesn’t push it. He just shifts gears, softer.
“Okay,” he says. “What do you like, then? Movies? Games? Stuff at home.”
James glances at his blanket, then mumbles, “Star Wars.”
Steve’s whole face changes, brightening instantly like someone just switched a light on behind his eyes. “Star Wars,” he repeats, delighted.
James peeks up, wary now in a different way. “Yeah.”
Steve doesn’t even hesitate. He points at you with quick, excited certainty, like this is a fact he’s already filed under Important Things We Have In Common.
“Oh yeah,” he says, warming to it immediately. “We’re big fans too. Especially the teddy bears.”
Your stomach gives a small, delighted flip at the we, like he’s testing the shape of it out loud.
James's mouth pulls into something that’s not quite a smile but wants to be. “They’re called Ewoks.”
“I know,” Steve says, offended in a way that’s obviously fake. “I’m - I’m educated.”
Then, with absolutely no warning, Steve hunches his shoulders and does this ridiculous little shuffle-step, hands up like paws.
He lets out a noise that is not quite a squeak and not quite a growl - somewhere between a yip and a chirp - like a woodland creature trying to start a fight.
It’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever seen.
It is also, tragically, effective.
James stares for one stunned beat, and then he bursts into laughter, sudden and bright, like it surprises him as much as it surprises you.
You clap a hand over your mouth, laughter bubbling up too, because Steve Harrington - battle-worn, bandaged, trying-too-hard - has just decided the best use of his time is to perform an Ewok impression in a pediatric room.
Steve keeps going, committing fully, because once he’s in it he might as well die on this hill.
He adds a tiny dramatic flourish, like an Ewok victory dance.
James laughs harder, wheezing. “Stop,” he says, but it comes out like a plea for Steve to keep going.
Steve straightens up, breathing a little heavier, hair slightly more chaotic than before. He looks pleased with himself in the most boyish way.
“What?” he says, hands raised like he’s innocent. “That’s how they talk.”
James giggles, wiping at his eyes. “No it’s not.”
Steve gasps, scandalized. “Wow. Okay. Harsh critique from a guy who was just laughing.”
James grins openly now, and the room feels different - lighter, like someone cracked a window.
And Steve… Steve doesn’t stop.
He keeps talking, easy and animated, like once he finds a thread he can pull - Star Wars, little forest warriors, whatever else he can spin into something silly - he knows exactly how to keep it going.
His hands move when he speaks. His face does a hundred little expressions without him seeming to notice. He meets James where he is without making a big deal of it, without trying too hard, without that fragile, careful tone adults use when they’re scared a kid might break.
You’re not even fully listening to the words anymore.
You’re just watching.
Watching the way Steve shifts his voice to match James's energy, the way he pauses when James pauses, the way he waits patiently, like he’s always known how to wait, for James to jump back in. Watching James's shoulders drop, inch by inch, like each laugh untangles something knotted tight inside him. Watching how the bed feels less like a trap and more like… just a bed.
Steve glances at you once, mid-sentence, and there’s that soft brightness in his eyes again - like he’s surprised the room is warm and you’re here to see it. Then he turns back to James, still smiling, still talking, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
James's laughter fades into little giggles, then into quiet, content sounds. His eyelids start to droop, stubbornly at first, then heavier. He fights a yawn like it’s an enemy and loses.
The yawn cracks his face open.
Steve goes still, noticing immediately, and his voice drops without effort - gentler, quieter, like he knows the exact volume to keep a kid from tipping back into upset.
You step closer to the bed and smile at James. “Alright,” you say softly. “I think that’s your cue.”
James blinks up at you, eyes glossy with tiredness now instead of sadness. He mumbles something that might be a protest, but another yawn steals it.
You smooth the blanket lightly, careful not to fuss. “Rest,” you tell him, warm and firm. “You can boss us around again later.”
James's mouth twitches like he wants to argue, but sleep is already winning.
You ease back toward the door, keeping your movements slow, careful not to spook whatever fragile calm has finally landed in the room.
Steve follows your lead without needing to be told, the big, dramatic version of him dialed down to something softer. He gives James one last look - fond, almost protective - and then he makes a tiny, ridiculous little salute with two fingers, like they’ve just concluded some important mission.
James's eyes are already half-closed, but you see the faintest ghost of a smile tug at his mouth in reply.
You pull the door mostly shut behind you, leaving it cracked just enough for the nurses to peek in, just enough for the cartoon’s tinny voices to keep James company.
For a beat you and Steve stand there in the small pocket of quiet you’ve made, the sounds of the ward muffled, the air still carrying that softened, post-laughter warmth.
You turn to Steve, lowering your voice. “You’re… good with kids. Like, surprisingly good.”
Steve rubs the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “Yeah,” he says, quiet. “I guess.”
Your eyes flick to the flowers again. He notices immediately and looks faintly horrified, like he’s been caught holding a live animal.
“Oh - right.” He lifts them a little awkwardly. “These. I, uh -”
You smile, soft. “You didn't have to -”
“I wanted to,” he cuts in quickly, then reins himself back, as if he’s afraid of sounding too much. He holds them out. “I wanted to say thank you. For the other day. For… being normal. For -” He exhales, frustrated at himself. “For helping.”
You take the bouquet, fingers brushing his for a second. The flowers smell like grocery-store water and something sweet.
“Steve,” you say gently, “you didn’t have to bring me flowers to say thank you.”
He swallows, eyes fixed on your face like he’s bracing for rejection even though you’re smiling at him.
“I know,” he says, and there’s a fragile honesty in it. “I just figured… ‘thank you’ was a good excuse. To, uh. Come back. To see you again.”
Your heart stutters.
Steve looks like he realizes what he’s admitted. His eyes flick away. His shoulders tense, the old instinct rising; retreat, retreat, retreat.
For a second you think he’s going to do it again. That he’s going to smile, say something safe, and disappear before the moment can turn into anything real.
He opens his mouth, closes it, then lets out a breath like he’s forcing himself to stay.
“Okay,” he says, voice unsteady but determined, like he’s stepping off a ledge on purpose. “So, there was one other thing I wanted to…”
He trails off, like the rest of the sentence gets stuck somewhere behind his ribs.
You blink, warmth rising in your cheeks, and step in to save him from the silence. “Okay,” you say softly.
Steve’s eyes lock onto yours. The hesitation is still there, but something steadies underneath it, like he’s decided he’s done backing away.
“I wanted to ask,” he says, simple and clear, “if you’d go out with me sometime?”
The words hang there, impossibly simple and impossibly brave.
Your grip tightens around the bouquet.
You smile, and it feels like sunlight breaking through cloud cover.
“Yes,” you say, breathless with how happy it makes you to say it. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”
Steve freezes like he’s not sure he heard right.
Then his whole face changes; relief first, then something brighter underneath it, something almost disbelieving.
“Really?” he asks, voice soft.
You nod. “Really.”
Steve lets out a laugh that sounds like he’s been holding it in for weeks. “Okay,” he says, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe his own life. “Okay. Great.”
You tilt your head, teasing to cover the way your chest feels too full. “So this… wasn't just a thank-you mission, then?”
Steve’s grin turns sheepish instantly, like he’s been caught and can’t even pretend he isn’t guilty.
“I mean…” he starts, then gives up with a quiet huff of a laugh. “Yeah. It was a thank-you mission.” A beat - there's a pleased little spark under the embarrassment. “With an ulterior motive.”
You laugh, and he laughs with you, and the hallway suddenly feels less like a hospital and more like a place where the future could happen.
Steve glances back toward James's room, then returns his gaze to you, like he’s trying to keep his feet under him. “Okay,” he says, careful but warm. “So, we should -” He hesitates, “I should take your number.”
You nod, shifting the flowers to one hand and reaching for the little notepad clipped at the nurses’ station. You scribble your number quickly, like you're scared he’ll change his mind, before tearing the paper off and handing it to him.
Steve takes it like it’s something fragile. His fingers close around it, and for a second he just looks at your handwriting like he can’t believe it’s real.
“Okay,” he says again, nodding to himself. “I’ll call you.” He lifts his eyes to your uniform, then gestures vaguely at it, a nervous smile tugging at his mouth. “And we’ll figure out a time when you’re not… y’know.”
You pause, letting the silence stretch just enough to be playful. Your mouth curves. “Not striping?” you offer.
Steve’s cheeks go a little pink, but he holds your gaze, grin turning downright smug for a second, leaning into it like he’s earned the right.
“Yeah,” he says, tipping his head. “Striping.” A beat. “Definitely striping.”
A laugh slips out of you, and his smile brightens instantly - wide and warm, eyes lighting up with clear satisfaction at having pulled it from you.
“Good,” he says, like he’s sealing the deal. Then he glances at the scrap of paper in his hand again like it might evaporate if he doesn’t keep looking at it. “Okay. Great. So…”
He shifts, energy buzzing through him now that the scary part is done, and you can practically see the ideas lining up behind his eyes.
“So,” he says, and now that he’s on a roll, the nerves turn into this boyish, barely-contained excitement. “Maybe we could go see a movie. Obviously. I already know we'd agree on what to watch. And there’s this diner on Main that does, like, stupidly good fries.” He gestures as he talks, ideas tumbling out faster than he can edit them. “Or pizza - there’s a place that’s actually good, not just ‘Hawkins good.’ And we could hit the arcade, if you’re into that. Or - ” his eyes flick to the flowers, then back to you, “the record store, I mean I don’t know what stuff you listen to yet, which feels like a problem that needs solving.”
You laugh, shifting the bouquet against your arm. “Steve,” you say, amused, “that’s… a lot for one date.”
He pauses, cheeks going a little pink again. The excitement doesn’t vanish, it just steadies, turning more careful, more honest.
“Yeah,” he says, quieter. “I just…” His thumb rubs the edge of your number like it’s an anchor. “I kind of figured -” a pause, then, hopeful but trying not to be, “I kind of hoped there’d be more than one.”
You feel something in your chest loosen, warm and bright.
You step a little closer, flowers tucked against your arm, and let your smile answer before your words do.
“There will be,” you say, and you believe it.
Steve looks at you, and the expression that crosses his face is almost disbelieving, like he’s been bracing for the universe to snatch good things away the second he reaches for them.
“You sure?” he asks, quiet.
You nod. “I’m pretty sure.”
Steve’s smile lingers, soft and almost disbelieving. “Me too,” he admits, like it slips out before he can polish it into something cooler.
“Okay,” he says then, steadier, like a promise he’s decided to keep. “Good. I’ll call you.”
“I’ll be waiting,” you tell him, and the words feel brave in your mouth.
He nods once, then backs away a step, like he’s making himself leave before he does something reckless like stay. “Right,” he says, small and fond. “I should - I better go before someone throws me out for distracting the pretty volunteer.”
His grin flashes, boyish. He turns, starts down the hall, shoulders a little straighter than when he came in.
Halfway there, he glances back over his shoulder like he can’t help it, eyes bright.
“Hey,” he calls softly.
“Yeah?” you answer.
He lifts the hand that isn’t in his pockets in a small, helpless gesture - half salute, half shrug. “Thank god for miracle mops, right?”
You laugh, the sound following him as he disappears around the corner - leaving you in the hallway with flowers in your hands and your heart too full.
Hawkins is still Hawkins. Strange, loud, unpredictable.
But you’re smiling, and somewhere down the hall Steve Harrington is smiling too, like maybe a dumb commercial really did change something.
