ooo stobin blurb that i wrote at like 2 am
idk how to title this but i wanna post it so here
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Steve’s lying to her. Robin knows it.
He lies every time she asks if he’s alright; lies right through his teeth because the great Steve Harrington has never relied on anyone for anything, and he’s not about to start now.
Steve’s lying, and Robin sees it. She sees it every time she enters the room and Steve straightens up a little more. She sees it in the way he has to focus a little harder on the road while he’s driving, or when he’s working a little too hard to formulate a string of words. She sees the darkening bags under his eyes, the way he’s dead on his feet no matter where they go or what time of day it is, the way he’s thinned out a little too much and in the sluggish sort of way he’s started to move.
Gone is that slightly too obnoxious kid with all the bravado and charm of a late night talk show host. In his place? Someone Robin doesn’t quite recognise.
Yes, Steve is lying, and Robin’s had enough.
She confronts him where she knows he’s not expecting it; his bedroom. It’s rare she actually comes into the house. Something about his parents flipping out if they find out he’s had anyone over.
But she knows where to catch him, and where it’ll be private. Hopefully it’ll help him keep his guard down.
The first thing she notices is the mess.
It’s messy
Messier than the room of a freshly twenty two year old should be. Messier than she knows Steve to be.
She doesn’t fail to notice the way Steve tenses and straightens up when she knocks on the wall beside the door. She watches the brunette jump, tired eyes darting to the doorway.
“What are you-?”
Robin doesn’t bother allowing him to respond as she slumps against the frame. “You really should lock your front door. That’s how things get stolen.”
It’s an attempt at a joke; a tease that she hopes with prompt Steve to lighten up a little. Instead, he only cracks a half smile and reaches up to rub the back of his neck, blunt nails dragging over the skin hard enough that Robin can see thin red lines forming under them.
“Right,” he breathes, “I guess I forgot…”
The sentence sort of trails off and Robin bites back a grimace. That’s not like her Steve. He was always so sure of himself - it was part of the reason she hated him. Part of the reason she admired him.
She pushes on. Keeps the conversation light, but doesn’t lose track of her goal.
“Up for something to eat?” she watches as Steve unfolds and begins to refold the same shirt he’s been working on since before she entered the room. There’s a large pile of laundry on the bed, but it appears to have hardly been touched.
Steve takes a minute too long to respond. Meanwhile, Robin notes the cautious way Steve moves. Almost scared to move too fast.
“Uh…no. No, I’m not really that hungry.”
Again, Robin bites her tongue. ‘Keep it cool, Buckley.’
“You sure? We can even go to that Italian place you like. I know how you love to bitch about the pesto, or the pasta, or the pasta and the pesto.”
Steve shakes his head. He turns his back to her, apparently having decided that this shirt had been folded enough and finally moving on to another.
“I’m fine.”
Robin sucks in a short, grounding breath and closes her eyes briefly. She then steps fully into the room, reaching to grab Steve’s arm so she can turn him around.
“Steve, c’mon, I know something’s-“
She can’t finish her sentence. As soon as her fingers graze Steve’s bicep, he’s whipping around, eyes suddenly wild like he’s a caged animal.
He doesn’t move with anger, but with fear. He’s not startled, or upset, or even fed up with Robin. He’s terrified.
Robin then finds herself wondering when the last time Steve has let her touch him was. When the last time Steve has let anybody touch him was.
She can’t wonder long, though, because almost immediately after the jerking movement, Steve’s stumbling. The whole thing only lasts a second or two, but time slows.
Robin watches the consciousness leave his face, hears the weak grunt and notices the attempt to catch himself before he’s collapsing.
Steve hits the ground, Robin moves to kneel beside him, and suddenly she’s back in that room. Not Steve’s bedroom, but the cold, echoing cell beneath Starcourt. The blueish hue is painted into the fabric of her mind, the sirens from months ago making her ears ring all over again.
She remembers the crack Steve’s skull made on the stone floor and finds herself checking his wrist for a pulse the way she had done back in July; can almost feel the Russian grunts looming above her.
“Steve!” she shouts. Her own voice doesn’t feel real. It’s distant and cloudy. “Jesus, Steve, don’t-“
Her eyes are filling with tears, her heart is racing a million miles a minute, she can feel her breathing reaching that panicked shake that she’d thought she’d never feel again and-
He’s groaning. Beneath her, Steve’s groaning, and then she’s back in his bedroom. The shag carpet reminds her that she’s safe. Steve’s safe. They are safe.
Finally, time is normal again, and Robin is pulling her friend up and into her arms with a shaking gasp. She grips onto him, balling her fists in the fabric of the sweater she’s pretty sure he hasn’t taken off in at least a week. She’s got half a mind to reprimand him for it, but then she feels Steve’s arms around her, clinging to her just as intensely as she is to him.
The fear fades completely and finally she can hear normally again.
“I’m sorry.” he’s whispering. Almost pleading. “I’m sorry, Robs, I don’t- I didn’t-“
She shushes him. She doesn’t need apologies or explanations. They can work this out, as long as he just tells her the truth. She tells him as much, he nods, and they sit.
Steve’s not going to lie anymore. Robin knows it.
