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One of the first things Steve noticed about Robin - aside from her cute, choppy haircut and witty personality - was her painted nails. The day they met, Steve's first day at Scoops Ahoy, Robin's nails were this shimmery blue tone that shifted to purple in the light of the backroom. He thought it was pretty. He found his eyes lingering on it when her hand was wrapped around the scooper.
Steve learned a lot about Robin while slinging ice-cream at her side, but one thing he learned was that she liked painting her nails; she had a new colour every week because she either got bored of it or picked the polish off. Steve learned, just from looking at her nails each week, that Robin had a small yet extensive collection of colours - all in different finishes and colour families - and Steve is pretty sure he saw every single one of them in those months of working with her.
After the mall burned down, after signing fresh, new NDAs that Steve couldn't even skim but Robin read through entirely - if only to give herself something other than fleshy-goop monsters and bone saws to focus on - he and Robin started hanging out all the time. They went to diners together, watched movies at the Hawk, went on walks. The colour of Robin's nails continued to change, more frequently now.
After two sleepless nights in his own quiet, cold house, Steve decided he had enough. He didn't have to be alone this time around and the idea that Robin was going through the same thing made his skin itch, so he snuck into her bedroom window and she pulled him in with open arms. Bullied him into the bed instead of sleeping on the floor. Still, they didn't sleep. They huddled close under the blankets, under the soft glow of Robin's lamp, wide awake and afraid of the nightmares, and they talked. Like little girls on a sleepover, they shared secrets big and small - things they never admitted to anyone else.
Two days into this routine, Robin pulled out her box of nail polishes, having admitted that painting her nails distracts her mind enough to finally calm down for a little bit. Steve sat at her side and looked through them all, helping her pick a colour and confirming that he had indeed seen every single colour on her nails before.
Except for one.
She told him, "I like pink, but pink nails is a little too girly for me. My mom gave me it, though, so."
It was the colour of girls' lipgloss; bubblegum pink. It was bright and bold and soft all at once. Steve liked it. Steve had always liked the colour pink, pretended that he didn't.
"Yellow," he'd answer to that essential question seven year olds ask each other on the playground. "Yellow is my favourite colour," he'd lie.
It must have shown on his face or in the way he still hadn't put the little pink bottle away because then, Robin, who was uncapping a dark, shimmery green, said in a carefully casual tone, "How about I paint your nails?" And then, seeing Steve's hesitation, added, "I have nail polish remover. We can take it off before breakfast tomorrow."
And there was something about the cover of night, the lamp washing Robin's room in a soft yellow glow, and Robin's gentle tone that made Steve feel safe enough to say yes.
They shifted to sit opposite each other, crossed legs touching at the knees, and Robin set her pretty green aside to take the bubblegum pink from him.
Steve's heart raced and he felt a little bit sick. Painting his nails was one thing, but painting them pink? It was starting to get to him. But then Robin took his hand and moved the little brush close to his nail and Steve jumped away for an entirely different reason.
Where do you work?
How did you find us?
More lies.
Memories of sterile basements, beady-eyed interrogators, and a Russian doctor wielding pliers flashed in Steve's mind. The next thing he knew he was on the floor, breath coming heavy and fast, eyes darting around the room as he searched for dangers that weren't there. Robin's voice was drowned out by the ringing in his ears he was beginning to think wasn't normal.
Then, a hand on his arm. With chipped, purple nail polish at the cuticles.
"Steve." Her voice was clearer now. He could hear the sheer worry in it, the slight tremble to it. "Steve, it's okay. It's okay, you're with me. We're safe. You're safe. You're okay."
Later, he'd be embarrassed about freaking out, even though Robin assured him it was understandable. Later, he'd feel guilty about the spill of pink that would stain Robin's bedsheets permanently. Later, he'd have a nightmare that this time his nail got ripped.
But until then, Robin would coax him back onto the bed and tuck him against her side. He'd watch, head on her shoulder, as she painted her own nails that nice green she seemed to favourite. She'd offer him the little brush and her right hand and laugh at the terrible job he does, but she would still hand him the bubblegum pink polish and tell him to paint her pinky nail with it.
And Steve would settle for the coat of bubblegum pink Robin paints his pinky finger with in turn.