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Robin Buckley had been working at Scoops Ahoy for exactly three weeks, and she'd already learned several important things about her coworker Steve Harrington:
1. He was genuinely kind, which was annoying because she'd wanted to hate him on principle.
2. He was terrible at talking to girls, which was hilarious.
3. He had a concerning habit of forgetting to eat lunch.
4. He looked like death warmed over at least twice a week.
Today was a death-warmed-over day.
Robin noticed it the moment Steve stumbled through the employee entrance at 9:47 AM—thirteen minutes before their shift started, which meant he'd been sitting in his car in the parking lot, probably trying to convince himself he could make it through the day.
His face was pale, almost gray. There were dark circles under his eyes that his stupid sailor uniform somehow made worse. He moved carefully, like his head hurt, and Robin recognized that particular brand of careful from her own migraine days.
"You look like shit," Robin said, because subtlety had never been her strong suit.
"Good morning to you too, Buckley." Steve's smile was automatic, practiced, and completely fake. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're like... the opposite of fine. You're the dictionary definition of not-fine."
"I'm fine," Steve insisted, already moving toward the counter to start prep. "Just didn't sleep great. It's not a big deal."
Robin watched him fumble with the ice cream scoop, his hands shaking slightly. "When's the last time you ate?"
"I had breakfast."
"When?"
"This morning."
"Steve."
"Yesterday morning," he admitted. "But I wasn't hungry, so it's fine. I'm fine. Stop looking at me like that."
Robin was about to argue—was gearing up for a full lecture about how he couldn't work a shift on an empty stomach—when the front entrance opened and Billy Hargrove walked in.
Robin's first instinct was to reach for the panic button under the counter. Billy Hargrove was bad news. Everyone knew it. He was violent and unpredictable and had put Steve in the hospital last year, and what the hell was he doing here?
But then she saw his face.
Billy's expression when he spotted Steve wasn't angry or threatening. It was... concerned. Worried. His eyes tracked over Steve's pale face, his careful movements, and something in Billy's jaw tightened.
"Pretty boy," Billy said, and his voice was rough but not unkind. "You look like shit."
"That's what I said!" Robin interjected.
Steve's face flushed—actually flushed, color rising in his cheeks despite how pale he'd been a moment ago. "I'm fine. Why does everyone keep saying that?"
"Because you look like you're about to pass out," Billy said flatly. He was already moving around the counter, completely ignoring the 'employees only' sign, and Robin was too stunned to stop him. "When's the last time you ate?"
"I already had this conversation with Robin—"
"Yesterday morning," Robin supplied helpfully.
Billy's expression darkened. "Jesus Christ, Steve."
"It's not a big deal—"
"It's a huge deal." Billy was close now, close enough that Robin could see the way Steve's breath hitched, the way his eyes went wide. Billy reached out and adjusted Steve's sailor collar, which had been sitting crooked. His hands were surprisingly gentle. "You can't go a whole day without eating, babe. We've talked about this."
"I wasn't hungry," Steve protested weakly.
"Don't care." Billy's hand moved to Steve's face, tilting his chin up to examine him more closely. "Migraine?"
Steve hesitated, then nodded slightly. "It's not bad. I can work through it."
"Like hell you can."
The door chimed again, and Eddie Munson burst in like a tornado of leather and chains and wild hair. He took one look at the scene—Billy crowding Steve against the counter, Steve's pale face, Robin's bewildered expression—and his entire demeanor shifted.
"Oh, princess," Eddie said, and his voice was soft, affectionate. "Bad day?"
Steve's blush deepened. "I'm fine. Why is everyone—"
"He hasn't eaten since yesterday morning," Billy reported. "And he's got a migraine."
"Steve." Eddie's tone was chiding but gentle. He moved to Steve's other side, effectively boxing him in. "Sweetheart. We've talked about this."
Robin watched, fascinated, as Steve seemed to shrink between them. Not in fear—she'd seen Steve afraid, and this wasn't that. This was... something else. Something that looked almost like relief, even as Steve protested.
"I can take care of myself," Steve said, but his voice lacked conviction.
"Yeah, you're doing a great job of that," Eddie said dryly. He reached out and brushed Steve's hair back from his forehead, the gesture achingly tender. "When's the last time you took something for the migraine?"
"I don't like taking pills when I'm working. I need to be alert in case—"
"In case what?" Billy interrupted. "In case the ice cream attacks you?"
Despite himself, Steve laughed. It was a small sound, barely there, but it transformed his face. "Shut up."
"Make me, pretty boy."
Steve's face went even redder, and Robin suddenly understood what she was witnessing. This wasn't bullying or intimidation. This was... flirting. Coordinated, tag-team flirting. And Steve was melting under it like ice cream in July.
Eddie caught Robin's eye and winked. Then he turned back to Steve, his expression shifting to something more serious. "Did you bring lunch?"
"I... no."
"Of course you didn't." Eddie sighed dramatically. "Good thing I'm a mind reader. Billy?"
Without a word, Billy produced a brown paper bag from seemingly nowhere. He set it on the counter and started unpacking it: a sandwich, an apple, a bag of chips, a bottle of water.
"We're not hungry," Billy said before Steve could protest. "We already ate. This is for you."
"I can't—"
"You can," Eddie said firmly. "And you will. Because if you pass out on shift, Robin's going to have to catch you, and no offense to Robin, but you're like six feet of useless muscle."
"I'm five-eleven," Steve protested weakly.
"Six feet of useless muscle," Eddie repeated. "Eat the sandwich, princess."
Robin watched as Steve looked between them, something vulnerable and confused in his expression. "Why are you guys doing this?"
The question seemed to hang in the air. Billy and Eddie exchanged a look—a whole conversation happening in a glance—and then Billy reached out and cupped Steve's face in his hand.
"Because you're ours," Billy said simply. "And we take care of what's ours."
Steve's eyes went wide, his breath catching. "I'm not—"
"You are," Eddie interrupted gently. He picked up the sandwich and pressed it into Steve's hands. "Now eat. Please. For us."
Robin watched Steve's resistance crumble. He looked down at the sandwich, then back up at the two boys flanking him, and something in his expression just... broke. In a good way. Like a dam finally giving way.
"Okay," Steve said quietly. "Okay."
Billy and Eddie both relaxed visibly. Eddie hopped up to sit on the counter—definitely against health code regulations, but Robin found she didn't care—while Billy leaned against the wall, both of them watching as Steve took a bite of the sandwich.
"Good boy," Billy murmured, and Steve nearly choked.
"Oh my god," Steve managed, his face burning. "You can't just—"
"Can't just what, babe?" Billy's smirk was wicked. "Tell you the truth?"
Eddie laughed, bright and delighted. "He's so pretty when he blushes, isn't he?"
"The prettiest," Billy agreed.
"I hate both of you," Steve said, but he was smiling now, a real smile, and he took another bite of the sandwich.
Robin cleared her throat. "So. Is someone going to explain what the hell is happening here?"
"We're taking care of our disaster," Eddie said cheerfully. "Steve has a concerning habit of forgetting he's a human being who needs food and water and rest. So we've taken it upon ourselves to remind him."
"Aggressively remind him," Billy added.
"Very aggressively," Eddie agreed. "With sandwiches and pet names and general harassment until he accepts that he's cared for."
Steve was still blushing, but he was also eating, and Robin noticed that some color was returning to his face. "You guys are ridiculous."
"You love it," Billy said.
"I don't—"
"You do," Eddie interrupted. "You love it and you love us and you're going to finish that sandwich and drink that water and take something for your migraine."
"I told you, I don't like taking pills when—"
Billy pulled a bottle from his pocket and shook out two pills. "Tylenol. Non-drowsy. You'll be fine."
"How did you—"
"We know you, pretty boy." Billy's voice was soft now, almost tender. "We know you don't like feeling foggy. We know you need to feel in control. So we got the non-drowsy kind. Now take them."
Steve stared at the pills in Billy's palm, then at Billy's face, then at Eddie's. Something in his expression was raw, vulnerable. "You guys really..."
"Yeah," Eddie said gently. "We really."
Robin watched as Steve took the pills, swallowed them with water, and continued eating his sandwich. She watched as Billy and Eddie maintained their positions on either side of him, a united front of care and attention. She watched as Steve slowly, gradually relaxed between them.
It was like watching a choreographed dance. Eddie would make a joke, and Steve would laugh, and Billy would use that moment to check Steve's water bottle, make sure he was drinking. Billy would adjust Steve's collar or his hair, and Eddie would use that moment to break off a piece of the apple, offer it to Steve with a playful "open up, sweetheart." They moved around each other seamlessly, never getting in each other's way, always knowing what the other was about to do.
And Steve—Steve was blushing and laughing and protesting, but he was also letting them. He was accepting the care, the attention, the affection. He was letting himself be taken care of.
Robin had known Steve for three weeks. In that time, she'd watched him deflect every expression of concern, refuse every offer of help, insist he was fine even when he clearly wasn't.
But with Billy and Eddie, he couldn't deflect. They knew all his tricks. They anticipated his excuses. They worked together to corner him, to overwhelm his defenses with coordinated care until he had no choice but to accept it.
It was kind of beautiful, actually.
"So," Robin said, leaning against the counter. "How long has this been going on?"
"Couple weeks," Eddie said. "We had a come-to-Jesus moment about our shared disaster and decided to join forces."
"It's been very effective," Billy added. "Steve's only tried to disappear twice since then."
"I don't disappear," Steve protested.
"You absolutely disappear," Eddie said. "You ghost everyone and hide in your big empty house and refuse to answer your phone."
"I just need space sometimes—"
"You need space like you need another concussion," Billy said flatly. "Which is to say, not at all."
Steve opened his mouth to argue, then seemed to think better of it. He took another bite of his sandwich instead.
Robin found herself smiling. "You guys are kind of intense."
"Steve requires intensity," Eddie said seriously. "Subtle doesn't work on him. He's too good at ignoring subtle."
"So we're aggressively obvious," Billy finished. "Can't ignore us when we're in his face."
"Literally in my face," Steve muttered, but there was no heat in it.
"You love it," Eddie said again, and this time Steve didn't deny it.
They stayed like that for another ten minutes—Billy and Eddie flanking Steve, making sure he finished his lunch, keeping up a steady stream of banter and affection and care. Robin watched as the tension slowly drained from Steve's shoulders, as his headache seemed to ease, as he started to look less like death warmed over and more like an actual human being.
When Steve finally finished eating, Eddie hopped down from the counter and pulled Steve into a hug. It was casual, easy, like they'd done it a thousand times. Steve melted into it immediately.
"Better?" Eddie asked softly.
"Yeah," Steve admitted. "Better."
"Good." Eddie pressed a kiss to Steve's temple—casual, affectionate—and then stepped back. "We'll check on you at lunch. And if you try to skip it, we'll know."
"We have spies everywhere," Billy added. He reached out and ruffled Steve's hair, ignoring Steve's protest. "Be good, pretty boy."
"I'm always good," Steve said.
"You're a disaster," Billy corrected, but his voice was fond. "Our disaster."
They left together, Billy's hand briefly touching the small of Eddie's back as they walked out, and Robin was left alone with Steve and about a thousand questions.
"So," she said. "That was..."
"Weird?" Steve offered. He was still blushing, but he looked better. Healthier. More alive.
"I was going to say sweet," Robin said. "Intense and slightly overwhelming, but sweet."
Steve ducked his head. "They're... they care. A lot. I don't really know what to do with it."
"You could try accepting it," Robin suggested gently.
"I'm trying." Steve's voice was quiet. "It's just hard to believe sometimes. That they actually..."
"Steve." Robin waited until he looked at her. "Those two are completely gone for you. Like, embarrassingly gone. And they're not going to let you disappear or hurt yourself or skip meals. So you might as well get used to it."
Steve's smile was small but genuine. "Yeah. I guess I might as well."
Robin watched as he started prepping for the day, moving easier now, the careful tension gone from his movements. She thought about Billy and Eddie's coordinated care, their seamless teamwork, the way they'd overwhelmed Steve's defenses with affection until he had no choice but to accept it.
She thought about how Steve had looked between them—confused and flustered and so, so loved.
And she thought: okay. Maybe I need to step up my game.
Because if Steve Harrington needed a whole team of people aggressively caring for him until he believed he was worth it, then Robin Buckley was absolutely joining that team.
Even if it meant learning to be as embarrassingly obvious as Billy and Eddie.
Some disasters were worth the effort.
And Steve Harrington was definitely worth the effort.