Archive of Our Own

It’s early in the morning, while they’re laying across Eddie’s less-than-sanitary couch, when Robin decides to finally pop the question.

“So,” she nonchalantly flips the cracked VHS in her hands, “the hell is going on with you and Wheeler?”

(She can’t start by saying Nancy aloud, not like this, not when that would mean she’d been thinking of her on a first-name basis, a friendly basis, a stupidly, stupidly wishful basis.)

(It registers, someplace in the recesses of her mind, that perhaps she should be more concerned over the fact that Vecna had almost killed Nancy, than where Wheeler’s relationship status with Steve stood. But the recesses of Robin’s mind weren’t feeling all that important to her right now.

And, selfishly, she doesn’t want to think about what Nancy might’ve seen. Max had only shared any details of her vision at the hands of Vecna with Lucas— but Robin knew Vecna preyed on guilt. Regret. Your deepest, darkest secrets. And Robin can’t help but push every thought of Nance’s deepest regrets far, far away from her.

Nancy had been quiet since.

She hadn’t offered details.

So Robin hadn’t asked.)

“Huh?” Steve looks up from his place on the other end of the couch, where he’d been absently chucking some tennis ball in the air over and over again.

“You.— Nance. I swear, if we weren’t in mortal danger, I would’ve puked all over Eddie’s jacket, and Nancy would’ve been all, gross, Robin! Because she’s just like that, apparently.” Robin explains in a rush, as she leans over the side of the couch— the image of an arctic seal peeping over a rock in some obscure documentary plays in her mind— and drops the VHS back onto the floor, beside Eddie’s rancid pile of magazines.
The bitter knot that’s already wedged in her throat tightens. “It’s not like I wouldn’t be happy for you, y’know, it’s just annoying, because— she’s barely with Jonathan, anyway, so, just get it over with, you know?”

“Rob? Hey? I have zero damn idea what you’re talking about,” comes Steve’s voice from behind her.

“Okay. Hold on, let me think.”

Robin slides her hand over the pile of magazines, fanning them out in the small space beside the couch. Mostly Playboys— really, the images looked like some guy had jerked off and just puked up everything that’d come to mind (somehow, she hadn’t expected that of Eddie)— and that funny fantasy game that the kids were into.

Robin had watched as Nancy had been grossly transfixed with Steve’s stupid shirtless chest on that boat.
(And, traitorously, she couldn’t help herself but wish she’d been the one Nancy had been looking at like that; but that was impossible, unattainable, and Steve was the one Nancy was staring after— and Robin only wanted the best for her best friend.)
(It was impossible to hate him from afar, like she had when it’d been Tammy.)

Steve had commented, repeatedly, that he and Robin were not dating. Rather insistently, she recalls.
(And she had, too, but she just repeats to herself that it was for Steve; she just pushes aside Nancy’s shining grey eyes and lips that looked so soft; and when she tells Nancy that she and Steve are Platonic with a capital P— it’s for Steve.)

She couldn’t shake the echo of Steve’s frantic screams as Nancy had stiffened, and her eyes rolled back.

And she couldn’t shake the jealousy-tinged fear that’d overtaken her for just a moment, when Nancy had fallen from the trance into Steve’s arms; couldn’t shake the sweet love infecting Nancy’s voice as she’d raised her eyes to meet Steve’s, and had said, simply, You.
(No, Steve’d said, shaking his head, Robin. She knew what song. Then, in true Steve fashion; I just had these big arms.)

Nancy, plus staring, plus Steve, plus It’s not like we’re dating— me and Robin.; They still like each other. Easy.

Robin can’t solve Vecna. She can solve this, though.

(And Nancy was everything; Robin couldn’t imagine someone wanting anything else.)

“I just think that you should give it a go!” She insists, feeling her thoughts in order. (And still finding every feeling in her chest growing inanely more out of order, like some really, really shitty game of jenga.) “You were right, you know? She’s not a priss. She’s insanely smart, and cool, and she can think ridiculously fast in trouble. And I think we’re friends now, which is good, Steve. I’m fine with it.” Robin coughs, trying to edge her voice down from the embarrassingly shrill tone it’d begun to adopt.

She feels the couch cushions— well, the remains of ripped cushion cases and a criminal lack of stuffing— shift as Steve shuffles across the couch to sit beside her. Robin grabs a random magazine from the pile, and scrambles back to resume her previous sitting position— said sitting position being that she’s half-upside down with her legs hanging over the back of the couch. She shakes the magazine open, yet finds that her eyes don’t for the life of her currently harbour the ability to process any of the words staring back at her.

She throws it away, with an uncomfortable surge of frustration from her gut. She lets it fly right over her head, satisfied with the throw when she hears the light skidding of paper on carpet.

Finally, she looks up at Steve, raising her brow. He looks over at her with his own eyebrows knitted together, with the twist of his mouth that she’d found— through trail and error— probably indicated all sorts of questions bouncing around inside his head.
Robin spins gracelessly around to sit— relatively— right side-up.

She inclines her head in faux-formality. “Dingus.”

Apparently, Steve doesn’t share a similar energy.

“Robin, seriously, I don’t see Nancy that way anymore.” His high tone— if her dusty mental file of common social cues from middle school, serves— really appears to indicate he’s genuinely, utterly perplexed by the idea. “You were the one all over her.”

Robin pauses. “I’m gonna need a different choice of words, here.” She already feels a stupid raspberry blush crawling up her neck. Nancy had been supernaturally lifting off the fucking ground, for fucks’ sake. Robin couldn’t be concerned?

Steve sighs. “I was only saying—“

“Whatever it was you were saying, I’m really gonna need you to stop,” Robin cuts him off. She starts to bounce her foot on the floor.
—And tries not to think about whatever it was that Steve was saying.

“I wasn’t saying— no, okay, I was, but maybe I’m just wrong.” He shrugs. “I just… you look at her like she’s the sun,” He gestures, “and you’re… a sunflower.”

“A sunflower?” Robin tries to say it dryly, snarkily; yet she can’t help the tremble in her voice. “Terrible simile. Try again.” (And her voice is cracking, now, too.) “I’d suggest— like a moth to a flame, but I’m not sure that’s absolutely quite appropriate in this particular situation. A moth would buzz— do moths buzz? No, a moth would be attracted— not like that, like a magnet—” She tries to convey her words better by motioning frantically with her hands, but finds them trembling, “—attracted to her magnetically, and me? I stay at least a foot away. It’s polite. Because I’m— you remember? I’m not like Nancy Wheeler. I’m different. It’s like the sun except— except since you need the sun; but if you— if you get too close, then you burn. You’re gone. So I don’t get too close. But you’re there and she’s fixated on you and I think you should really—” Robin snaps her mouth shut as she runs out of breath, realising everything that’d just spilled out of it.

She takes a breath.

“Fuck.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Steve drops his face into his palms. He sighs, then looks back up at Robin. “I don’t know what you and Eddie are seeing, but there’s really— I mean, what I see— there’s really nothing between me and Nancy anymore.” He reaches over the small remaining space between them, to rest a hand on Robin’s shoulder. She tenses. “Nance is… complicated, when it comes to feelings. Believe me. But she’s not… mean. Not like— that.” He finishes, deflatedly.

“I’m sorry, Steve,” Robin shakes her head as she stares down at her lap. She can’t bare to look him in the eye. “I… don’t know what I’m doing.” She blinks away the stupid solitary tear that’s threatening to roll down her cheek. “It’s just weird, because she’s meant to be this— this priss, but— she keeps guns in her room, and she’s exceptionally smart, and far more perceptive than me, and—“ —she has soft pink lips and pretty doe eyes— “—and somehow, she still wants to hang around me after how weird I turned out to be! In the library she seemed so, like, pretentiously aloof with me, and just— insanely irritated by my presence, but then she chose to bring me with her to investigate the Creel murders, and when we split into groups of two in that creepy old house, and she just continues to talk with me, to possibly what’s becoming an excessive degree, about anything, even though I just become excessively more strange! And— when she was there,” Robin feels her chest heave, “suddenly all I thought was that— don’t you dare fucking die on me, Wheeler, I think I might love you,” Robin feels breathless. “That’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever felt, I think. Worse than that flesh monster, or that goddamn Russian doctor. Nancy Wheeler with that—“ she taps the side of her skull, “—those empty eyes.”

Robin sighs.

“I think that— perhaps I’m going insane.” She drops her head in her hands, and just shrugs. “It’s that fucking Vecna creep, I swear,” she mutters, quieter.

Steve pats her shoulder, albeit with a slight stiffness. “You’re not going insane, Robin, Christ. It’s the Nancy Wheeler effect,” he announces, with far too much confidence that’s appropriate for the actual statement that’d just exited his mouth.

“The Nancy Wheeler effect?” Robin raises her head, purposefully enunciating each word with an insanely over-exaggerated tone of voice. When in doubt, default to snark. “Man, I just wish I’d taken the class on that, now…”

Steve opens his mouth to respond, but another voice filters into the room.

“Class on what?” Eddie announces, as he waltzes in. “Oh dear, am I… interrupting?” He snickers to himself as Steve and Robin both glance down at Steve’s hand, where it’s resting still on Robin’s shoulder. Steve removes his hand.

“If you actually think we’re together, then that’s on you, dude,” Robin says, fixing Eddie with the most the hell? look that she can think of, complete with a single raised eyebrow and pursed lips. Does he really think that, after everything? Robin sighs. He’s probably high, or something. “And you’re meant to be on Nancy watch.”

(Robin and Lucas had tried to convince everyone to stay together, in a single space, after both Max and Nancy had each effectively gained a ticking bomb planted in their minds— but it’d been far too cramped to sleep comfortably, so having a Nance/Max Watch had seemed the next best thing, to them.)

“Oh, I know you’re not. Together, that is. Pretty obvious to me. I just saw an opportunity for a joke, and I took it,” Eddie explains, (possibly over-explains) half-shrugging at them, while dipping his hand into an open bag of crisps on a shelf— a bag so beat-up, it’d practically blended with the rest of the thin layer of dirt and dust that lay over almost every square foot of the cabin. Gross. “And Wheeler’s surrounded by those little shits at the moment. She’s fine.” He frowns. “I mean, you said they’d been through hell before, so they’re debatably more responsible with this shit than I am.” He puts a crisp in his mouth.

“That’s fair,” Steve shrugs. Robin glances up at him, eyebrows raised, lips pursed, a silent question hanging in the air. Desperately, she tries to quench the writhing in her stomach as her mind filters through the dangers to Nancy if she’s left alone.

Steve raises his arms, and shrugs again. “He’s got a point.”

“Anyway, don’t take this the wrong way,” Eddie interjects, “But whatever you two were talking about before sounded really interesting, and I’m so bored, you have no idea.”

Jesus Christ.

“Is this your way of saying you were eavesdropping?” Robin turns back and asks in a monotone, “Because it’s grossly, underwhelmingly lacking in any sort of creativity.” She tilts her head back and leans backward onto the couch, tucking her legs up with her. “And, no.”

“Worth a shot.” Eddie drops another crisp into his mouth, chewing only for a second before swallowing. “I’m way too loud to eavesdrop, anyway.” He shrugs a single shoulder again.

“Damn right you are,” Steve mutters. Robin snorts a laugh.

Eddie’s potential comeback is interrupted by the sound of another short rhythm of footsteps patting down the hall.

Nancy Wheeler’s face peers around the doorway.

(Speak of the devil.)

Robin could swear she lost all the air in her lungs for a moment— so, she drops her eyes to the floor.

Which lasts a whole moment before they’re edging themselves back up again.

“Steve. Robin. Eddie,” Nancy nods at them all in turn, before landing her gaze on Eddie. Robin follows her lead, faux-admiring the guy’s hair. “Apparently you can’t play Dungeons and Dragons with only three people.”

“They’re trying to play now?” Eddie furrows his brow. “How? You’ve gotta be bullshitting me, Wheeler.”

Nancy just shrugs, and motions towards the hall. “You gonna help them or what?”

“I’m gonna see what the hell you’re talking about.” Eddie abandons the bag of crisps were he found them, and slides through the doorway, past Nancy, and then Robin can only hear his lazy footsteps retreating down the hallway, and, suddenly, she can’t avoid really looking at Nancy Wheeler any longer.

The first thing Robin registers is that, yes, her eyes are pearly grey. Not glassy blue. Her shoulders are steady; much less shaken than last time she’d seen her. Thank God, she thinks.

The second— oh, she’s pretty; and now that Robin lets herself notice, she can’t stop. Nancy’s always been the type of pretty that’s innate, yet Robin’s somehow only realised it over the past two days or so; the type of pretty that, with the dirt caked in her hair and dust stuck to her face, Robin still feels herself flush, and her heart leap; somehow, Nancy fucking Wheeler with inter-dimensional snow stuck to her nose is still just the absolute most magnificent creature Robin’s ever seen.

Nancy picks her way across the mess covering the floor of the trailer with her non-snapped limbs, and Robin takes a moment to wrench her eyes away, to spare a glance at Steve; he’s watching her with an actual smirk on his face. Robin pulls her lips tight and widens her eyes— imitating what she’d commonly heard as being referred to as The Look.

It seems to work; Robin watches Steve roll his eyes, before their silent conversation is broken up by Nancy taking her place between them, on Eddie fucking Munson’s fucking couch.

In a move Robin absolutely wouldn’t’ve ever predicted, Nancy turns to Robin, away from Steve. And a little part of her can’t stop from cheering in some sort of pathetic victory.

(Subtly, Robin drops her eyes from Nancy’s own, to focus instead on the ridge of her nose— and prays Nance won’t freak about it the way Robin’s mom would.)

And— Nancy’s smiling at her; sure, maybe it wasn’t actually real, maybe she was here to heartlessly chew the hell out of Robin for potentially ‘hogging’ Steve.

…No, Nancy wouldn’t do that.

(Maybe she was here to say, “Robin Buckley, I love you. I hadn’t realised it earlier; because I was hiding a part of me, that part of me. I’d thought a lukewarm suburban life was all that I’d be destined for; a nice enough older husband, with nice enough money, and kids raised just fine, who’d go on to live the same monotonous life as I. I’d thought it was my only option. But I think that, since I almost died, I realised that life isn’t something I can just throw away. I can have something better. Because; I love you, Robin. I love you, so.” And maybe then she’d lean in to meet Robin’s lips with her own—

But, of course, Nancy’s not like her— not like that— and Robin suddenly feels sick to her stomach that she’d even pretend that she was— especially after everything she’d just been through.)

Instead, Nancy’s asking, “How did you know my favourite song?”

Of course she’s asking about that. She’s just curious as to why Robin had known what tape to shove into the walkman. (Thank God for Eddie’s surprisingly diverse taste in music.)

“Right—“ And Robin’s immediately cursing herself for all this stuttering that Nancy’s presence always manages to coax out of her. “Remember when we were in your room, and you said not to touch anything? And I, uh, touched everything? Yeah. you had, um, tapes, on your nightstand. Just luck.” She lets out an awkward chuckle.

“Oh.” Nancy leans back against the couch.

“Sorry, was that bad? I didn’t mean that it was all cool of me to look through your stuff,” Robin starts to clench her fists, “I guess I was just curious. It payed off, right?”

“Robin,” and Nancy’s looking at her with this look, with her eyebrows scrunched up and her soft lips pursed, and Robin has no idea what it means because she’s never really understood the secret code for what generally accepted facial expressions are supposed to mean, is something wrong, Nancy, please, I can’t lose you. “I—“

“Sorry! I’m just glad you’re, like, alive—“

“Rob—“

“Stop!”

Robin and Nancy both snap their heads around at the sound of Steve’s voice. He’s leant forward from his place on the couch, his hands out and his eyes wide. Robin clenches her fists and stuffs them in her pockets to keep them still.

Then, before anyone can say anything, there’s the clattering of multiple sets of footsteps down the hall, and Erica, Max, Lucas, Dustin and Eddie are all filtering back inside the space, each yelling their own queries in Steve’s direction. Eddie’s voice rises above the rest.

“The hell, Harrington?”

It’s Erica’s voice next. “So nobody’s dead?” (And Robin could swear there’s a tremble to the kid’s words.)

“The hell?” Steve’s got his brow pinched, looking between Robin and Nancy and the cluster of kids surrounding Eddie. “No! I was just trying to get her—“ Robin splutters as he gestures towards her, “— to stop freaking out.”

A possibly awkward pause lingers in the air for a moment.

“If anyone should be freaking out, it’s Wheeler.” Eddie offers after a moment.

“So,” Robin cuts in, diverting curtly in perfected faux-sweetness, “how’s the D and D going?”

“It’s not.” Eddie laughs, easily much kinder than Robin had been, and takes his place sat on the floor. “Little shits just wanted to grab me.”

“I’m sorry,” Max is still standing with Dustin, Lucas, and Erica in the doorway, her eyebrows pinched together, “What was Robin doing?”

Robin insists, “Nothing!” just as Nancy answers, “Freaking over the whole getting Vecna’d situation.”

“‘Vecna’d’?” Both Sinclair kids immediately ask, almost eerily in sync. Erica looks up at her brother— with no complaints, Robin notes— as he continues, “When did that become a verb?”

“Just now, apparently,” Dustin says as he picks his way over to Eddie, grabbing a handful of crisps from the bag on his way. Gross.

Max sighs, and almost kicks everything cluttering the floor out of her way to reach the corner of the room that’s right next to Steve’s side of the couch. Robin hears the faint trickle of Kate Bush as the kid tugs her headphones back up.

Suddenly, though, any observations are cut short as Robin feels the brush of a hand against her own— and she glances down, to find Nancy Wheeler had slipped her hand just right next to Robin’s— just resting there. She wants to ask why. Is that something friends do? Friends, one whom just helped the other escape a brutal death?

Oh, how Robin wishes that she had the bravery and liberty to take Nancy’s hand in her own, intertwining their fingers, and lifting her hand to press a kiss to her palm; or just to take her hand softly, just to hold it; just to be connected by touch and warmth.

“Damn.” Steve’s voice snaps Robin out of her daydream. “You really can’t have a single conversation around here without being interrupted by the dumbest bull you’ve ever heard.” He stands, nodding to Robin as he motions his hands toward the doorway, taking a few steps across the room.

Robin purses her lips pointedly, and nods to Max. The girl’s head had snapped up, eyes fixed on Steve. “Okay, what happened Max and Nance watch?”

Steve follows her gaze down to Max. The kid immediately turns away, but Steve steps back and resumes his place on the couch. Right beside her corner.

“Are you good for… ‘Nance watch’?” Nancy asks, prompting Robin to whip her head back around. (For possibly the fourth time that day. It’s getting ridiculous.)

“Huh?” And Robin’s immediately internally cursing herself out. “Oh! yeah, sure. ‘Nance watch’. Give me a cookie and some soda, I’m watching.”

And even though she’s mentally screaming at herself for the absolute dorkiness of that sentence, Robin lets a tiny smile edge itself onto her face. She feels her chest flush with relief (and those damned butterflies) as Nancy returns it, with her own small quirk of her lips.

(A real smile, Robin hopes.

At least, between everything, they’ve forged something good between each other.

…

Does that make us… friends?)

“We’re just going to take a walk,” Nancy announces to the group, prompting Lucas, Erica, and Dustin, to look up from their animated conversation with Eddie for a moment; nodding almost simultaneously, before all turning back.

Steve nods at Robin, some sort of expression on his face. Max is silent, essentially unmoving, the crackle of And if I only could, I’d make a deal with God, trickling around the room.

Nancy stands, gently taking Robin’s forearm with her hand, and Robin feels like she’s been short-circuited by an open electric socket— specifically one with a fork stuck in it. For good measure.

(Nancy’s strong.)

So, Robin just follows Nancy’s lead in standing from the couch, and lets herself be led from the room; down the hall; while keeping her eyes fixed closely on her shoes.

Nancy swings open the door to Eddie’s room; and Robin’s wondering if Eddie’s okay with that, but it wasn’t like he’s tried to stop them from going toward his room; and why had Nancy not taken Robin anywhere else; why Eddie’s room? A bedroom—?

Robin feels her face flush. She squashes the bedroom thought before it can even be finished.

Eddie’s bedroom is nicer than she’d imagined— of course, she hadn’t, she’d had no reason to— but if she had, she wouldn’t have thought of it like this. The dim, cool light in the room still manages to dazzle and dance over everything, despite its weak rays; dancing over various scruffy denim and leather jackets hung on the wall despite the open, empty closet; rock and roll posters featuring sharp attacks of colour and exclamation, far more tasteful that the Playboys that Robin had encountered earlier; a polished guitar situated in a pride of place on a shelf, obviously a main attraction; sure, maybe his drawers are a mess and there are practically stacks of cans covering the floor. Yet, Robin can’t shake the feeling that someone loves this place.

It looks lived in— A stark contrast to Nancy’s room, she recalls out of nowhere; Nancy’s room almost seemed like she was putting up a setpeice.

(A setpeice with hidden gems, though. Like the tapes sitting on her nightstand, beneath some classic, sweet little book, that Robin knows she read in late elementary, but can’t recall the title of for the goddamn life of her.

Hidden gems.)

And then Nancy’s dropping her arm, and she’s pushing the room’s door shut, and she’s sitting on some old chest against the wall and she’s looking at Robin— and Robin’s just standing there, probably looking like an entire idiot.

Robin inhales, and takes a moment to clench and stretch her hands, trying to release the tension in her body. She shuffles over to where Nancy’s sat, on the chest. She perches on the furthest edge, and turns towards Nancy fucking Wheeler.

Robin doesn’t think she knows how long it’ll take for her to get over the fact that Nancy The Priss Wheeler can take charge and shoot a gun and lie to cops and run from arrests and, and, and, while still having that goddamned Tom Cruise poster on her wall.

Nancy’s shifting, toward her; she’s leaning her knee to the side, to brush Robin’s; just a touch. A casual touch, that normal girls think nothing of.

Robin’s never been normal, but the fluttering in her chest is suddenly making that hard to hate.

(All she’d wanted, for so long, was to be normal. Even before she’d realised why she didn’t understand what her friends saw while drooling over greasy boys, or what it had really meant when they’d complain and roll their eyes and switch channels whenever the news anchor started to talk about the epidemic— no, before she found a label, Robin had always been wrong.

A conversation wasn’t just a conversation; it was a complex and frequently overdrawn ritual that humanity engaged in, with no clear benefits; it consisted of dancing around every true feeling, and what Katie had really said about Amy, and why Molly’s mom was actually always ill; there were allocated slots where you should say something, or react in some way. Robin hadn’t known them. She’d correct a trivial detail, or jump in when there appeared to be an open spot— but she’d always been wrong, and all she’d get was funny looks that she’d never been able to decode. Sometimes, she felt as though everyone had received a copy of social etiquette; except her. As a young child— she’d thought that perhaps she’d been some sort of alien; maybe a shapeshifter, forced into a human life— trapped hopelessly on Earth.

Until Steve fucking Harrington had fucked up her summer plans of laying low and scooping ice cream, and she’d gotten fucking drugged by fucking Russians, and she’d somehow shapeshifted out of her place stuck in normal form, and spilled her guts; and he hadn’t looked at her like she was E.T.

Turns out, Steve Harrington wasn’t all that normal either.

Not like her.

But he wasn’t King Steve, that’s for sure.)

Robin’s not watching Nancy’s eyes— they’re such an entrancing pearly grey, as though they’d been carved by those creepy little animated oysters from Alice In Wonderland, and wrapped in cracked silver plating, then gifted, gently, to a sweetly slumbering newborn. Robin feels as though to face them directly, she’d be sliced open by the glare of the reflecting light coming off of them, so she’s keeping her eyes rested on the bridge of the girl’s nose— so, she can’t be sure if she sees Nancy’s pupils flick down to her lips, or if she’s just imagining it.

Regardless of the why question of Nancy’s actions in taking her elsewhere, Robin suddenly feels determined to regain her earlier confidence. God knows, Steve probably thinks she’s a blubbering mess compared to Nancy; and Nancy’s the one who nearly died.

God, Nancy’s the one who nearly died.

…

Oh.

Nancy’s putting up a front. Of course she is, some part of Robin whispers, despite the fact she’s literally only actually known Nancy for a few days.

Of course she is. Max had been ashen, glued to Lucas’s side, with trembling hands and eyes flicking over the room at all times.

Vecna feeds on the most insecure parts of you.

What had Nancy seen?

Robin can’t ask that. So, she opts for an easier route.

“Nance?” And Robin doesn’t think she’ll ever tire of saying her nickname. “Really. Are you okay?”

“Huh?” Nancy’s eyebrows shoot up.

“You just led me into Eddie Munson’s bedroom… for fun?” Robin smirks, “Or did you have something to say to me?” And she bites down on her lip, cursing her constant default to snark.

“No, no, yeah. I was just thinking.” Nancy drops her gaze to the floor, and chews on her bottom lip. Robin wasn’t watching her lips— but she diverts her eyes.

Then, she edges them back up; Nancy needs a friend, not some—

some—

. . .

— Nancy’s apparently seen every insecurity that she holds blooming before her, courtesy of some sadistic demonic shit, and Robin’s thinking—

Their knees are still touching.

Robin swallows, and shifts her knee closer.
Nancy needs a friend.

Robin can be a friend.

Nancy flashes her a small lopsided smile.

Tic.

And Robin finds herself counting the moments. (Stupid idea.)

Tic.

It’s a slow beat.

Tic.

But, all too soon, she feels that there’s one too many tics passed for her to squash down her uneasyness any longer— fuck, if Nancy’s taken by that Vecna creep just because Robin’s too damn awkward to talk, the one time her mouth isn’t running a million goddamn miles a minute— she should’ve brought the walkman—

“Nance?” Robin worries she sounds pathetic— her voice is exceedingly raspy, and she swears it breaks twice on the single syllable— which has gotta be some sort of record— but Nancy doesn’t scrunch her nose or roll her eyes at her. Either she’s really, really warming to her, or something’s really damn wrong.

It’s too likely to be the second option, and Robin feels her heart dropping to the floor.

No, no, no—

No, instead, Nancy jerks up; and, even through the light’s dimness, Robin could swear on her left index finger that she wasn’t imagining the way that Nancy’s face had reddened.

Be a friend.

Robin can be a friend.

What did you see, Nancy?

“Sorry,” Robin winces instead.

“No, don’t worry,” Nancy shakes her head, instead casting her eyes around the room, as though she’s searching for something.

Robin watches as Nancy’s gaze switches from the bed (shoved in the corner), to a shelf (cluttered with old books— Robin swears that she can eye a beat-up copy of Little Women in there— information she files away for later), to the closet door (there’s plenty of painted-over scratching on that).

Until, finally, she turns back to Robin, her mouth open.

“I’m scared.”

It tumbles out of Nancy with none of the class nor eloquence accompanying her usual speech; her voice is quiet, so, so quiet. And trembling. She’s trembling.

Nancy looks so small. She’s short— short compared to Robin, at least, which might not be saying much, anyway— but her presence has always been in spirit; she’s a leader. Like Princess Leia in Star wars— the first one— into the garbage chute, flyboy. She takes charge. (Those were some of the first few things Robin had learnt about Nancy Wheeler over these batshit insane past few days.)

No; now, she looks just like a scared teenage girl.

Robin’s breath catches in her throat.

What did you see, Nance?

“Nancy,” Robin needs to ask, because God can she still not read any fucking social cues, “Can I hug you?”

Nancy pauses, for just a moment, and Robin swears her heart’s so high in her throat she’s going to puke it up, which is an absolutely gross but morbidly entrancing mental image, and every second she feels Nancy’s gaze searing into her and she’s still not moved and, fuck, Robin’s overstepped, of course she has—

Then Nancy’s launching herself at Robin, tears rolling freely. She snakes her arms around Robin’s waist, and buries her head in her shoulder, her knees tucked tightly beneath herself.

For a moment, Robin’s too stunned to react; so she stands there, stiff as a board, as Nancy almost squeezes the essence out of her.

Then, she’s kicked into motion after just that second— a second that, admittedly, felt almost like a century— and she pulls Nancy tight to her chest, letting the butterflies do whatever the hell they want, because Nancy needs a friend right now.

Robin has one arm wound around Nancy’s shoulders, and the other loosely encircling her waist. Despite the way Robin’s only, uncomfortably, half-turned towards Nancy, she can’t help but feel that, sappily, Nancy really feels like a missing piece.

Her head tucks perfectly in the crook of Robin’s neck. Her warm hands gripping Robin’s back. Her shoulder presses against Robin’s side.

Nancy’s shaking.

Robin pulls her closer.

__________________________________

It doesn’t take too long for Nancy to cry herself out. Robin feels her steadying herself, sucking in air less frantically, her arms loosening around Robin’s torso. Robin pulls away from the embrace the same exact moment she does.

Nancy settles her arms in her lap, and schools her face into the most neutral expression Robin’s ever seen. There’s not a twitch in any of her features; it’s as though she’s a doll fresh off the factory line. Not a single hint hidden away, no aftershocks from the sobbing; tear tracks were wiped clean, her puffy red eyes were instead ashen in the cool light, her mouth was pulled in a tight line. Nothing spattered with metaphorical blood from the metaphorical scene of the metaphorical crime. There’s no something, there’s just empty features and ghost towns. And Robin’s shit at reading expressions.

Nancy opens her mouth to speak, but Robin beats her to it.

“Wheeler, I swear to God, if you say that you’re fine then I’ll dunk you headfirst into a comic-book style unlabelled vat of toxic green ambiguous chemicals, and then I’ll grab the oh-so-mighty heroes by the scruffs of their little fucking primary colour leotards, and shake them like bags of rice until they finally swear not to go within twenty feet of you until you admit that you actually need people to help you in life.” Way too detailed, Buckley. What the hell.

Then— Nancy, much to Robin’s absolute disbelief, laughs.

It’s short, and it sounds hollow in her ears, but it’s there. Nancy’s laughing.

“Robs, God, when this is all over, we should hang out somewhere other than a musty library and a mental asylum.”

And it’s the way Nancy’s saying her name, and how she wants to still hang out, when all this is over, and she’s admitting to the absurdity of how they’ve gotten here, the two of them, that makes Robin’s chest feel like popping candy and her heart do summersaults.

It’s in the way Nancy lets a small smile finally push itself onto her face, how she’s tipping her head to the side, and how her hair’s falling beautifully over her shoulders, that makes a spark go off in Robin’s mind, saying, Wow. You’re falling hard.

(If Robin could shush that voice, she would. And she’s fucking tried.

If fourteen-year-old Robin had known how to shush it— like she’d always wished— then—)

“Yeah,” Robin coughs as she says it, and can feel that blush— that stupid blush, that never really left— creeping back up her neck, and onto her face, “I’d like that.”

And, fucking dammit, Nancy’s distracted her from whatever actually they came back here for for Nancy to tell Robin.

“Nance?”

Nancy’s eyes creep back up from her lap, right up to meet Robin’s. Gotta be fucking kidding me.

Robin drops her gaze down, almost imperceptibly. It’d been a gamble to avoid eye contact for so long, really.

“Sorry. got carried off then.”

“Nothing new here,” Robin insists, and Nancy’s chuckling again, and it feels right.

“Nancy, you—“ she says, just as Nancy opens her mouth.

“Robin, I—“

They both cut themselves off, and Robin notes dimly how weird it is to find that so funny as she does. Nancy reaches over the few inches separating them, and takes Robin’s hand, fully.

(She wouldn’t do that if she knew.

No shit, some part of her thinks.

She squashes it.)

Nancy’s hand is cold. God, it’s so cold.

“Nance, your hand is really cold.” Robin tells her.

Then, with a surge of unforeseen confidence, Robin takes both of Nancy’s hands in her own. She turns them upwards, and presses her thumbs onto each of Nancy’s palms, trying desperately to rub any sort of heat into them.

When that shows no progress, Robin presses Nancy’s palms together and rubs up and down the back of her hands with her own.

“‘Cause friction creates heat, you know? You probably know that. Definitely. That’s like, fifth grade. Or fourth. I can’t remember. It’s physics, right? No. Science? No, physics is science. Forget that. God, I don’t know what I’m saying.” Robin drops their hands, and looks up.

Nancy’s staring at her. Her mouth is twisted upward, and her eyebrows are pinched close.

“Nance?”

Nancy blinks, “Huh?”

Robin gestures towards Nancy’s face, “Social cue I’m attempting to… understand,” she drops her hand back into her lap. “Did I do something wrong? Sorry. What were we talking about?”

Nancy smiles softly and raises her eyebrows, “…How cold my hands are?”

“No— I mean, before that.” Robin flicks her gaze down, mentally backtracking their conversation. “Were you gonna say something? Sorry. I got distracted.”

“You’re gonna have to stop saying sorry,” Nancy responds instead, looking at Robin through narrowed eyes that’re making the popping candy in her chest absolutely explode.

“Right.” Sorry. “I mean, you can’t just backtrack, because you definitely just cried on me, I mean, I have the shirt to prove it—“ Robin gestures pointedly to the drying tear splotches on said shirt, “And I think that talking might help— that’s cliché as hell, damn, but Vecna goes after people with… some sort of guilt, right? So, uh, maybe if it wasn’t, like, consuming you— sorry, that sounds— bad— if it wasn’t like a, for want of a better word, black hole feeding on all your bad feelings, then maybe you’ll stand a better chance? You know?” Robin cuts herself off before she can dig a deeper hole for herself. Nancy’s expression hasn’t changed. Robin inhales. “It’s doesn’t have to be me, okay? I just— we can’t lose you.” Robin tugs at her sleeve. “I would say Max, because you’re the only two who’ve— seen that, but, I don’t know how well she’s doing right now. Uh, Steve, maybe—“

Nancy cuts her off with a hand on her knee. “No, Robin, I want to talk to you. That’s why I asked you.” Nancy’s shoulders drop. Robin hadn’t even noticed how long they’d been tensed for. “It’s just… hard.”

Nancy blinks, hard, and takes a breath. Robin, before she can overthink it, places her own hand over Nancy’s, running her thumb over her wrist. It must’ve been the right thing to do, since Nancy looks up at her with a smile. A down-turned smile, though.

When Robin was seven, she’d read the phrase ‘a sad smile’ in a book, the title of which she can’t for the life of her remember. She’d taken it to her mother, pointing to the phrase, asking how a smile could be sad. Her mother had frowned down at her for a moment, before crouching down next to her. She’d asked Robin, Was there ever a time, when, you’ve been sad, but someone’s said something nice? or they’ve made you laugh, so you’d had to smile too?

Robin, being seven years old, hadn’t had an answer. It’d been three years before she’d understood.

The first night of summer camp had been terrible. It had all the makings of well-loved polaroid memories; the raging bonfire that sparked and spat with each log thrown its way; the urban legend-esque spooky stories of hanged witches and priests with empty eye sockets; the acoustic guitars at the fireside, strumming out god-fearing songs that every good American kid was born knowing the lyrics to by heart— but there weren’t ever any polaroids of the teen with a bloody nose, or the two punks fucking in the bathrooms, or the scarlet-red fungus that crawled along and permeated every inch of the wooden cabins.

Robin had been rather close with Barbara Holland, back then. Close enough that their parents had hardly thought twice before sending them to the same summer camp.

Barb had hated it immediately. She’d complained about the bugs biting at every inch of exposed skin, the sweltering blanket of heat that smothered every breath you’d take, the boys with no sense of personal boundaries. (Which Robin would argue was an issue no matter where you happened to be.) Robin, attempting a desperately optimistic point of view in order to counter Barb’s scarily realistic observations, had talked a spiel of Oh, look at how fast that squirrel ran up that tree! God, did you hear that, Barb? I think that was a freaking owl! Oh my gosh, look at that tree! Wouldn’t that be so fun to climb? I’ll race you!

Night had fallen, eventually. Kids were funnelled into their assigned (or unassigned. Nobody checked) cabins for the night. Robin had immediately transferred her stuff to the bunk next to Barb’s.

It’d been pitch black, with all the other kids fast asleep, when Robin had awoken to the sounds of hiccuping sobs, coming from beside her.

She’d slipped out her shitty flashlight from the inside pocket of her bag, and cupped the light with her hand, so as to not risk waking anyone. She’d found Barb huddled in the corner of her (already tiny) bed, frantically wiping at tears rolling down her face.

Barb? Robin had said, Are you okay?

Barb had flinched at Robin’s voice, then raised her gaze upwards, shaking her head. Robin had seen Barb cry before. Rarely. She knew how to sit herself beside her, wrap her arms over the other girl’s shoulders, and rub an arm up and down her back until she stopped shaking.

Robin had wanted to cry a little, too.

Instead, she’d risked it, and spoken softly; I hate it here, Barb. I do. It’s six more days of this horrible place until we can get out. Six days. How long is that? I don’t know. It sounds short, it’s not even a week. But that means we have to sit for hours around a bonfire six more times. Or five. Wait. Monday tomorrow, then Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, then Saturday— six more times! But we have all night, too. You know how many things you can do at night if you have a flashlight up your sleeve? It doesn’t have to be up your sleeve. It can just be hidden. Point is, you can use it to read all night, and sneak around your house while your parents are asleep— or, we could use it here, and sneak outside. Do you need a flashlight to sneak outside? I don’t know. There’s light outside. Oh! The stars! Barb, we should look at the stars. I love the stars, Barb.

And that’s how the two girls had decided to sneak out of cabin C, to lie in the ever so slightly dewy grass, looking up at the constellations dancing across the sky.

Barb had been quiet. Robin had taken one last risk.

They look the same as back home.

And Barb had met Robin’s gaze with puffy red eyes and a tear-streaked face and a trembling lip, but, still, with a small, wonky smile beneath it all. A sad smile, Robin had understood.

A sad smile. That’s how Nancy was looking at her, now, as she laces hers and Robins fingers together.

“What did you see, Nancy?” Robin hears her voice crack. She swallows.

“You remember when…” Nancy begins, trailing off for a moment. “You remember when Barb went… missing?” Nancy blinks, pausing. Drops her head.

Robin nods. “Yeah.” Don’t. Don’t tell me. “I thought she’d… gotten out.”

“I know.” Nancy lets out a breath. Pauses. “But she didn’t. She died. That upside-down creature, it killed her. Because I left her alone by Steve’s pool so I could go have sex with him instead of going home with her.” She spits every word, her voice husky and breathless by the end of the sentence.

“No— Nancy, no.” Robin’s shaking her head, “You— That’s not your fault. She was killed by a literal monster, Nance. How could you have considered that? You didn’t do anything wrong.” Robin squeezes Nancy’s hand, and hesitates before she continues, “And— I knew Barb. She wouldn’t— she wouldn’t want you to feel like this.” Robin swallows. “She didn’t deserve to die. And— Yet, she did. You know who’s fault that is? The fucking monster that killed her.”

Barb is dead.

It’s almost surreal to realise; Robin had been so sure that Barbara Holland had, somehow, found a way to escape the monstrous black hole that was Hawkins.

Up until, almost two years ago, when the Hawkins Lab Conspiracy was brought to light. Barb was marked as Victim; Deseased.

Robin had held fast and tight to her theory that this was all a coverup— that, somehow, Barb had outwitted the cops and newstations. Created a new life for herself.

Yes, it was a coverup. Robin wished it wasn’t.

Barb hadn’t escaped. She’d been murdered on that night; the one that the kids loved to refer to as the night it all began. Like a horror movie. (But, maybe that was fitting.)

Murdered, by the creature with no face, only a crooked head unfurling into a daisy shaped like death.

So many teeth, Rob, Steve had told her once, describing the November of ‘83 and the Fall of ‘84 to her late on a drunken night. The kids called it a demo-dog. Like a demogorgan, but a dog. It had a head like a fucking venus fly trap.

Nancy’s shaking her head. “No, Robin, you don’t understand. If I wasn’t so selfish we would’ve driven back, and she’d still be here. You— You’d still have her.”

Robin wants to take Nancy by her shoulders and shake her until she understood.

“Nancy, please, listen to me,” Robin tentatively lifts Nancy’s hand, and draws it to her chest. Nancy lets her. “You couldn’t have known. Everyone thought Hawkins was some safe, boring little town. You didn’t bring the demogorgan to Barb. Vecna— he uses your guilt against you. Whatever he showed you— it’s not true. It’s not what Barb would want.”

Robin ducks her head down, to inquisit on Nancy’s face. There are tears and tears and more tears rolling down with each passing moment.

“I’m not lying, Nance.”

Gently, gently, Robin lifts her hand that isn’t holding Nancy’s, and brings it to the girl’s face. She catches tears before they can fall further. Her fingers brush soft skin, and saltwater runs down her wrist.

(It’s irrelevant how many times Robin tells herself that she can be just a friend. Little fireworks run up her arm every time she brushes Nancy’s skin. She feels her breath escape her when Nancy purses her lips. She can see the teardrops knotting her eyelashes when they’re caught by the light. Everything feels too tender, too intimate. Perhaps this is normal for normal girls, though. Robin wouldn’t know.)

“Robin, I—”

Nancy’s looking at her with those doe eyes, her mouth slightly apart, tears slowing. It’s when she leans back into Robin’s hand, that’s accidentally cupping her cheek, that Robin realises she’s been frozen like that. She daren’t move.

Nancy lifts her own hands, and brings them up to cup Robin’s face; a small squint in her eyes and a tilt to her head. Robin daren’t breathe.

“Robin,” Nancy says, again. There’s a pause before she continues, quieter. “I miss her. But. I— you’re a lot. But you’re— you make sense.”

“I miss her, too. She was lucky to have you, Nancy.” Robin gulps, and with an out-of-place, shaky laugh, brings her thumb over Nancy’s cheek. Nancy doesn’t flinch away.

“You believe me when I tell you it’s not your fault?” Robin can’t help but ask.

Please.

Nancy flicks her gaze down, then back up, just shy of meeting Robin’s eyes.

“I think… I will.” Nancy breathes out, a small smile on her face. Not even a particularly sad one, at that. Just quiet. Almost like Robin was the only other real person in the world to her; Robin could swear it felt as though she could see every quiet moment Nancy had ever hidden, in that smile.

Sometimes I wish we were just me and you.

No, no, stop it, Robin. She’s with Jonathan. Kind of. She’s got feelings for Steve. She’s straight. Off limits. Best friend’s ex. The first close friend that hasn’t left.

Jesus Christ.

“You don’t like eye contact, do you?”

“Huh?” Robin feels like there’s a sudden knot in her throat. “Did I do something wrong?” She adds, quieter.

“No,” Nancy laughs, softly, doe eyes glinting. “It’s an observation, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Robin responds. But then silence falls, and Nancy’s hands are still resting on either side of her face, and Robin’s resisting the urge to trail her fingers along Nancy’s jaw. “Sorry. Uh. It’s just because your eyes—“ She flicks her gaze an inch back, making eye contact for only a moment, “—look like pearls, I think. Very shiny. Bright. Silver? They’re a lot, is what I’m saying.”

You’re supposed to be squashing her guilt over her best friend’s death. What are you doing.

Nancy nods. “Your eyes are very blue.”

“Thanks?” Robin smiles, hesitantly. “I mean, I don’t really like blue eyes either. They’re a lot. I think brown eyes are very pretty. Brown can be all different shades. Brown’s a warm colour, too, it’s nice to look at. I like brown.”

“Robin?”

And Nancy’s saying her name in the soft and breathy way again, and Robin feels like her heart might break out of her ribcage. Their noses are barely inches apart, and if Robin wasn’t resisting the urge to flick her eyes down to Nancy’s lips every passing moment, then she’d surely find her situation absolutely ridiculous.

“Steve has brown eyes.” She blurts.

Nancy narrows her eyes, and bites her lip, and Robin’s chest should not be feeling like this.

“Why aren’t you dating Steve?” Nancy asks, in a low voice, and Robin is sure she did not misread Nancy’s eyes dropping down for a split second. How could she? Nancy’s face is less than six inches away from her own.

“You’ll hate me.” Robin blurts out, again, because apparently such close proximity to Nancy Wheeler just does that to a person.

Nancy softly brushes a stray strand of hair away from Robin’s face, and Robin doesn’t know if she wants to yell or sob.

“Do you really believe that?” Nancy says, softly.

No. Yes.

Robin remembers the Reagan sign in the Wheeler’s front yard last year.

But she remembers Nancy, too.

“No.” She breathes, shakily.

Nancy’s so pretty she’s burning Robin’s hand. If Nancy wouldn’t hate her, though, that’s worse. This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong, she feels, with every beat of her heart.

“Robin… I’m not stupid.” Nancy says. She leans closer, close as she can without touching. “So. Am I reading this wrong?”

“I—“ Robin swallows. “I think I’m reading this wrong, actually, because if I’m not, then I think I’m having an extremely good— but, strange, dream.”

“A good dream?” Nancy smirks.

“Please tell me I’m not totally misinterpreting this, Nancy.” Robin says, with a trembling voice, and brings her other hand up to hold Nancy’s, still cupping Robin’s face.

“You’re not.”

Nancy slides her hand behind Robin’s neck, and then she’s kissing her.

It’s messy. The only other time Robin’s kissed anyone was Jimmy Green during spin-the-bottle at a middle school sleepover; his gross, wet mouth on hers had left the feeling of a stain for weeks.

Kissing Nancy is different. Kissing Nancy is like the buzzing in Robin’s chest is finally able to bubble over; warm lips against her own, and she’s breathing her in, and Nancy’s combing her fingers through Robin’s hair, and Robin’s hands are hovering, hesitant, but when Nancy drops a hand to Robin’s waist, Robin shivers with the touch, and slips her own hands down to rest on Nancy’s hips, And she can feel Nancy draw in a breath.

Robin breaks off first, catching her breath, and just rests her forehead against Nancy’s.

“Holy shit,” Robin laughs. It’s all she can do.

Nancy carefully brushes Robin’s hair out of her face. Robin lets her eyes flutter closed at her touch.

Which lasts a whole second, before Robin’s brain catches up with her. She opens her eyes.

“Nance— Nancy. I like you. Like, a lot. But— please tell me, that this isn’t, uh, just— because you’re… grieving.” God, that sounds selfish. “I mean— It’s hard, to, you know. Be like me. And. And if you are— I’m glad, but, please, tell me if this isn’t…” Robin trails off. She would shake her head if it wasn’t still rested against Nancy’s.

“Rob, I don’t… kiss anyone just because.” Nancy smiles. She’s smiling. “I really like you, too.”

And then Nancy’s leaning in again, and this time, Robin meets her halfway.

The second kiss is softer, less hungry, and they both part after a second or so, foreheads resting together again.

“Okay. Wow.” Robin says, “Not a dream.”

“Not a dream,” Nancy confirms, with that adorable small smile that Robin might say she reserves for quieter moments.

Nancy laces her fingers with Robin’s, and closes her eyes. Robin follows, content to sit and just breathe, as she still feels short of air from the lack of distance between her and the girl she’d confidently called a priss not a year earlier.

Well, maybe not just breathe. She still bounces her knee. Nancy doesn’t seem to mind.

Robin doesn’t know if it’s been a minute, or ten— when suddenly there’s a sharp knock against the closed door. Both girls jump, and the door swings open, revealing the one and only Eddie Munson.

Robin feels herself flush, and instinctively drops Nancy’s hands, scrambling away from her. Nancy doesn’t notice; she’s on her feet in a split second, arms raised, eyes darting around for any sort of weapon.

“Woah! Woah! Robin, Wheeler, it’s just me!” Eddie raises his arms, “Steve sent me to check on you!”

“Oh.” Nancy exhales, stiffly sitting back down on the wooden chest. There’s at least a foot of space between her and Robin. It makes Robin feel cold.

“Sorry, Eddie.” Robin mumbles. She daren’t move closer to Nancy— she knows Eddie’s safe; she’d taken note of the hanky in his back pocket immediately. But she didn’t know if Nancy knew.

And she certainly didn’t want to give Eddie any fuel against her. No, sir-ee.

“Wheeler? I mean, Buckley was… obvious, but I wouldn’t’ve bet on you.” Eddie crosses his arms, a shit-eating grin on his face.

Never mind.

“Eddie.” Robin grits her teeth, but doesn’t miss the benefit of the open acknowledgement to slide over to Nancy. “Nance?”

Nancy’s got her gaze locked on her lap, eyes glazed over.

“Sorry,” Nancy shakes herself, looking up. “God, I wish Jonathan wasn’t freaking unreachable right now.” she huffs.

A sharp arrow of guilt pierces Robin’s stomach. Jonathan. Nancy’s boyfriend. All the way in California, no idea of how much danger his girlfriend is in.

(No idea of how Nancy just kissed me, Robin can’t help but gloat to herself; before the shame sobers her, and then she’s just the evil dyke corrupting good women again.

No. Nancy said she really does like you.)

Eddie’s comically Disney-esque eyes narrow. “You’re still with that guy?”

Nancy glares up at him. “…I don’t really know.”

“He’s not the guy who took photos of you and Steve through a window junior year?” Eddie scoffs.

“That was a misunderstanding,” Nancy says, just as Robin exclaims—

“Huh?”

“Never mind that!” Eddie grins, looking all too pleased with himself. “Steve’s probably about to send in a search party. I take it I’m sworn to secrecy?”

Robin takes Nancy’s hand and looks at her, raising her eyebrows. Nancy shrugs.

“We don’t have time to discuss that now. Yes. C’mon.” Nancy says, and stands, Robin following her.

The three make their way back down the short hall, single file, returning to the main living space.

They’re greeted by the sight of Erica and Dustin engaged in a heated argument about— Robin strains to her, but she could swear it’s over My Little Pony— Lucas sat beside Max, his arms over her shoulders, the girl curled into his side; and Steve sat stiffly on the couch, his eyes locked on his watch.

Steve stands, seeing Robin and Nancy stood together; Eddie’s already made his way over to Erica and Dustin. Robin, unsure how to continue, just stays stood next to Nancy, holding onto her hand as though for dear life.

“What were you talking about?” Steve draws his eyebrows together, and side-eyes Robin, as subtly as he can manage. Which is much less than she’d like, but alas.

Robin grins at him. “Girl stuff.”

Steve purses his lips and narrows his eyes in that way he does when something’s outwitted him. “Huh?”

Nancy rolls her eyes, and tugs Robin past her confused best friend, settling herself on the couch, taking Steve’s spot. She motions for Robin to join her; obediently, Robin flops down beside her. Nancy slips her hand into Robins, and glances over at her, brow raised. Robin nods, smiling, and squeezes her hand.

Nancy turns back to Steve, smiling, too. “Steve. You look like an idiot over there.”

“I feel like I’ve missed something important,” Steve responds, and steps over to the couch. He shoves Robin’s head off of the armrest, sitting on it like an ottoman. He glances down at Robin.

Robin sees in almost slow-motion, as his eyes slide from her smug face, down to where her and Nancy’s hands are joined, back up to her face. His mouth drops open comically, his eyes widening and his brows raising. He nods towards Nancy, a silent question in the air.

Robin looks back at Nancy, who’s seemingly currently entertained by Dustin, Erica, and Eddie’s ludicrous discussion.

Nancy Wheeler.

Who Robin just kissed. Who just told Robin that, yes, she does really like her.

Nancy’s smiling. It makes her look even prettier, Robin thinks.

She feels Nancy squeeze her hand. Robin feels heat rush to her face. Okay, maybe she’s not entirely entertained by those three’s argument.

Robin squeezes back, and looks back at Steve, biting her lip with a smile on her face.