Chapter Text
In late January, 1984, Robin saw Steve Harrington stand stock still in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at a house with twinkling Christmas lights. She thought it was weird, but wasn’t going to comment and was about to walk around him when she realized his hands were shaking and repeatedly clenching and unclenching. And, because Robin could never leave well enough alone, she placed a hand on his shoulder.
He startled back and looked about ready to punch her, before he blinked once-twice, and let out a shaky breath and shook himself as he ran a hand through his drooping hair.
“Sorry-” they said at the same time, and the sheer bizarreness of the situation startled a giggle out of Robin.
She started again. “Sorry. Uh, are you- y’know. Okay?”
Steve met her eyes. “No.” and sat down on the curb, not protesting when she sat beside him.
She fiddled with her fingers. “Do you want to…talk..? About it? I mean, we aren’t friends and you're kinda an asshole but you look about five seconds away from throwing yourself into the quarry so I figure someone is better than no one , right? And, like, feel free to tell me to fuck off but I swear I won't, you know, like, blab to the school about this. That wouldn’t be cool, considering you’re just standing staring at Christmas lights that should probably be taken down by now? And, um, actually I’m just gonna stop talking now. Okay. Cooooool.”
His breathing seemed to have evened out during her rambling, at least.
“Do you ever feel like…I don’t know, like everything you know is a lie? Like you're going a bit crazy and just trying to pretend that everything is fine, even if you feel five seconds away from a mental break?”
Robin had not actually been expecting him to talk to her.
“Oh. uh, yeah, actually.”
Steve looked at her, none of his usual bravado in the desperate look he gave her. “Yeah?”
She shrugged. “Sure. I mean, shit’s kind of fucked, and Hawkins sort of sucks and, like, I dunno, sometimes my brain runs too fast and all it churns out is worst case scenarios. Rabies or quicksand or flesh eating diseases or murderers in the woods.”
“Huh. What helps?”
Robin laughs, mirthlessly. “Shit, Harrington. Fuck if I know. I just sort of…hold on until I'm alone so I don’t snap in the middle of class. Maybe talking about it with...someone?”
Steve snorts. “Yeah, no. I don't think I can really do that.”
Robin sighs, “well. Shit’s fucked, so we just kinda…deal with it? Acknowledge it’s fucked and keep on going, I guess.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, the Christmas lights that had overstayed their welcome twinkling behind them. Robin was never good at awkward pauses, so she clapped her her hands on her knees. “Well! I, ah, hoped that helped? Sort of? And I won’t say anything about this, I swear, so please don’t you say anything either?”
“Yeah. ‘Course. Thanks.” he stood, brushed off his pants, and offered her a hand up. “Buckley, right? Like the cough syrup?”
She accepted the hand, nodding. “Yeah. Like the cough syrup.”
Steve nodded, thanked her again (despite her really not doing anything other than pull him from whatever daze he was in and ramble) and they went their separate ways.
And that was that.
— — —
Except, it wasn’t, not really. Steve waved to her in the hallways, just a quick nod or smile between classes.
Steve caught up to her about a week later, told her that he was sorry. That he was trying to be less of a douche, and trying to curb Tommy and Carol's vitriol too.
Robin…hadn't been expecting that.
And that was before they ran into each other after she finished band and his basketball practice let out.
Steve smiled when he saw her, French horn case in hand looking at her watch as she realized the next bus going towards her house would be another twenty minutes at least .
“Hey, Buckley. How’s it going?”
Her head shot up, startled. “Oh. hey yeah. It's going.” she shrugged, lifting her horn as if to demonstrate what, exactly, was going. Robin never claimed to be at all smooth.
Steve just nodded, brows drawn a bit. “Are you taking the bus?” she nodded. “Do you want a ride instead? Beats waiting in the rain and you’ll get dropped off at your door.” He shrugged, like it was totally normal to offer rides to girls you'd barely spoken to before.
Robin paused, trying to weigh the chances that she’d be murdered by Steve Harrington after band practice. It was a risk she had been willing to take, because it did beat waiting for the bus and then walking three blocks home in the mid February sleet.
“Sure, that’d be really great actually. I can give directions and judge your music taste.” She winced because, seriously, Buckley? Are you asking to be murdered today?
But Steve just huffed through his nose and put his hands on his hips in a way that reminded Robin disturbingly of her mother. “You wouldn’t be the first, and I doubt you’ll be the last. C’mon, I need to grab my bag and then we’ll go.”
Once in the car, Robin wasted no time in taking advantage of the permission she assumed she got from him to snoop through the cassettes next to the gearshift and occasionally giving directions to her house. It was, all-in-all, not the worst ride she’d ever gotten and didn’t end in any murder. Nice.
Before she got out to run to the nice, warm dryness of her house, Steve spoke up. “Do you have band every week, then?”
Robin, too shocked to process the question fully, nodded. “Yeah.” she blinked before adding. “uh, why?”
Steve shrugged. “Do you want another ride next week? Basketball on Tuesdays seems to end around the same time as band, and you don’t live that far from me. May as well save you the bus fare.”
“Oh! Sure, yeah. That’d be great actually!”
Steve grinned. “Sick. I’ll see you around, Robin.”
“For sure.” She slipped out of the car, jacket over her head. “Thanks, Steve.” She said before slamming the door and running up her front steps.
— — —
That was when he started to chat with her in period breaks, talking about the latest episode of The Love Boat and, bizarrely, Trapper John, M.D. (Steve watches it religiously and still complains that he likes the original M*A*S*H* best) or comparing favourite songs with a kind of gentle ribbing that made Robin grin.
It was more interaction with the so-called King of Hawkins High than she ever anticipated and far more fun than she would have thought.
Nancy also would smile and make idle small talk or share notes from mutual classes. She was nice, in the same grade as Robin, and was way smarter than anyone she'd ever met. It was nice, but Robin still felt a bit of sting (that blended with an ugly kind of guilt for even feeling it) from knowing Barb had slipped away to be Nancy’s best friend. She may have been imagining, and she knew friends drifted apart, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt , which only compounded the squirm in her chest because Barb was missing.
Nancy had her own circle of friends that were nice and looked at Robin funny when she got a bit too excited and didn’t really acknowledge Steve at all. She also had an odd pinch in her brow whenever Robin was a bit too casual with her, so she kept friendly and saved her very best banter for Steve, who chuckled at bumped her shoulder and threatened to give her a noogie of all things, which she promptly shut down by threatening Steve’s own precious hair. He was such a baby.
Robin got more weird looks in the hall, but that was fine, she usually did (band geek that doesn't know how to shut the hell up now hanging out regularly with the boy who is seemingly the former king of the school, she is somewhat self aware) but it got worse when Steve had bounded up at lunch like the little puppy he was and handed her a mixtape complete with hand written and decorated title of "thanks for that time with the thing in January, Cough Syrup" With little multi coloured stars and triangles and circles dotting around it. It was so stupid and she loved it and wasn't able to properly thank Steve before he spun and wove his fingers through Nancy's, leaving Robin to stare at the cassette in bewilderment before running to make it to class in time.
Tommy H. and Carol glared at her when they noticed her little present from Steve as she passed them, but she felt bold, meeting their eyes and shrugging, brushing past them toward her next class.
After Steve dropped her home that night, she popped the cassette in her tiny little portable player and laughed as the first track blasted I Need a Hero through its speakers. Steve Harrington, she was discovering, was a dork . And was, even more inexplicably than that weird little piece of trivia, her friend .
What the fuck.