stereotape ✶

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Robin jolted in her bed, heart pounding. She hadn’t been asleep—Christ, who could sleep after everything that happened— but had instead been staring up at the ceiling, trying to think about anything other than the events of the past week. Her bedside lamp dimly illuminated her room with a warm light. However, this did nothing to quell the tight, tense panic that had settled into Robin’s body, even after the figurative storm.

Tap. Tap.

There it was again, that noise. She couldn’t convince herself that it was just a stray tree branch or a nocturnal animal, no. She sat up, reaching for the kitchen knife that she had placed on her dresser. Flattening her body against the wall, she peeked out the window that faced the street.

TAP!

Something small, blunt, and round hit her window, and Robin flinched, pulling away from the glass in an involuntary response. Now her hands were really shaking, trembling in the lamplight glinting off of the knife. Shit, she thought to herself. Shit. She could handle everything—the Russians, the Mind Flayer—but that was when she had Steve. And the eleven-year-old with superpowers. And, well, everybody else.

But now she was alone. She looked out the window again, praying that it had just been a trick of her mind. A figure stood outside of her window, only partially illuminated by the streetlight, face hidden. Panic flooded her mind. Was it the Russian government? Maybe they sent someone to kill her, to threaten her or finally silence her once and for all. Or maybe it was another person who’d gotten… mind-flayed. The image of a Lovecraftian horror breaking into her room, tendrils drilling, ripping into her flesh, flashed briefly in her mind. She shook her head, and looked at the figure again. She was so, so screwed. She opened the latch to her window, making sure that the silhouette of the knife in her hand was fully visible.

"Who are you? What do you want?" she called out to the street as quietly as possible, so as to not wake her parents. She tried to make her voice tough, angry, but it quavered on want, her fear betraying her. Her voice, uncertain and small, echoed back to her, mocking her.

To her surprise, the voice that answered was deeply familiar.

"It’s Steve," came the answer. "Uh, Harrington?" The fact that he had to specify amused Robin, and the corner of her mouth lifted into a small smile. She didn’t realise it, but it was the first time she had smiled all week.

"What are you doing here?"

"I…" he was silent for a moment. "Can I come up?"

Robin hesitated. It could be a trap. But she still had her knife with her, and it wouldn’t hurt…

"Yeah, okay," she said, her guard lowering at his warm voice.

He clambered up the side of the house expertly, as he had done so many times before, and pulled himself up through the window in one swift motion. His hair was tousled from the feat, reminiscent of a scene from Romeo and Juliet, ironic considering the circumstances.

"Wow," he said, breathless, after catching a glance of the knife in Robin’s hand. “You really did stock up.” Robin could tell that he was trying to lighten the mood in a way of explaining his situation. She could’ve joked in return, but instead, she set the knife down and hugged him fiercely. Steve relaxed at her touch, hugging her back almost desperately. As if he hadn’t touched anyone since everything that had happened. His breaths felt uneven and heavy, as if he were on the verge of tears.

"I just," he said with a shaky breath, "didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I—"

"Hey," she said, holding him tighter. "It’s okay. Me neither." They stayed like this for a good long while, just embracing and feeling a blanket of relief at the other’s presence.

"You scared me at first, you know," Robin said, after they had released each other and were laying next to each other on the bed. "I thought you were, like, another Russian agent. Or one of the Mind Flayer’s cronies.

"Yeah, sorry," Steve laughed. "I just thought it’d be weird if I came and knocked on your door. Like, all, 'Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Buckley! It’s past midnight, but can I see your daughter?'" Robin snorted, but she wasn’t in the mood for jokes.

"It all just doesn’t feel... real, you know?" she said.

"I know," he said.

"I feel like I’ll never be able to sleep again. I jump at everything. The shadows on the wall, the sound of a car passing-"

"About that," Steve said. "I was wondering… can I…?" He looked at her hesitantly, not wanting to verbalise his request. His eyes were filled with an empty feeling of abandonment, of loss, of hopelessness that wrenched Robin’s heart. In the warm light, a purple bruise now stood out like a stamp on his cheekbone, and Robin reached up to touch it tenderly. Steve didn’t flinch away, but instead leaned into her touch.

"You’re staying here tonight. Every night, if you want," she said with a finality. Steve’s eyes flooded with relief.

"Thank you," he whispered, voice barely audible. Robin turned to clamber onto her bed, fixing the sheets and fluffing up the pillows. As she laid onto the mattress, Steve stood to look at her.

Awkwardly, he said, "Uh, I can just sleep on the ground, if you want. If you have an extra pillow-"

"Get up here, dumbass," she said affectionately, grabbing his arm and pulling him to the bed. "I wasn’t making my bed for nothing." He slowly clambered onto the bed, as if he was afraid of making Robin uncomfortable.

"It’s gonna be okay, you know," she murmured, her eyes locking with his in the dim light.