#i love my silly lil british giftshopist

[spctrsgf]

Hello :3

Could you write something where it’s Steven’s birthday, but he rather not think much about it because he doesn’t have anyone to celebrate it with and it kind of makes him sad. However, as he’s stocking up some shelves at the shop one of his coworkers, the curator of the Egyptian exhibition, approaches him to wish him a happy birthday and she gifts him a small cake she baked (she definitely has a crush on him, but is as timid as him). And Steven just melts because he only mentioned his birthday once and here is his crush showering him with attention.

cake

word count: 1.4k

warnings: language (I think), just floof, no use of y/n, steven being lonely (not for long dw), reader and steven being oblivious lovestruck idiots

Steven never liked birthdays. 

Well, that’s a lie. He loved other people’s birthdays. He is a giver at heart; he always wants to shower people with attention and gifts in appreciation. With the few people he’d been close enough to call a friend, he was a ball of excitement when the day came along. He provided the “happy birthday”s and corny gifts he’d spent the whole year brainstorming on.

But his birthday? The energy seeps out of him.

What was there to celebrate? He was just another year older, and another year passed without so much of a happy birthday from anyone else. Why celebrate something, like a birthday, if you had no one to celebrate it with? Steven had seen all the balloons, happy faces, cake, and the countless other things that represented a birthday on the television. Though he yearned to experience it, he felt like all hope had been lost.

What did it matter if he celebrated it anymore? He could get by without it.

Even he knew that he was lying to himself. As he woke up on the day he dreaded all the other 364 days in a year, he found the daunting facts hovering over his head: no one would remember. When he strolled into the museum, on time for once in a while, Greg, yet to remember his name, the thought hit him again. All throughout the day, he shuffled about his day in a sort of haze, ready to be off of work so that he could buy himself a box of chocolates to eat while watching some sort of sappy romance movie and wallow in his sadness. 

But, no, the universe seemed to be against him. Donna decided to put him on inventory again. It was the third day this week, and it was as if she knew herself and was just out to make his life even worse than it was. So there he stood, the last soul in the museum other than the cleaners, spending away the last of his birthday at work. How miserable of him. 

He shook his head out of his stupor. Steven, don’t sit around and pity yourself! He scolded himself for what felt like the millionth time that day. So much for not thinking about it. Sighing, he put his brain to thinking about the newest documentary he’d found to watch when he got home. It was on the Greeks, which were admittedly less interesting than the Egyptians, but still good nonetheless. 

“Steven?” he perked up at the sound of his name, nearly dropping the plush Taweret he was holding. When the sweet voice didn’t call again, he chuckled lowly to himself. Look at you, imagining things. Bloody hell, mate, pull yourself together. The door opened before he could move to scan the Taweret, his grip on it tightening in automatic response. Then a head popped in, looking left and right, and his body immediately relaxed.

You.

You, the curator of the Egyptian exhibit he cherished so much. He’d been by it so much, in fact, that he could remember every bit of information that was there, but he still found himself back there again and again, always in awe of the sweat and tears he could tell you shed while crafting it. On the one occasion that you’d been by while he was there, you’d shuffled over to him when he timidly called you over and met his gaze with a slightly shy yet informed one as you answered his question, honeyed voice like music to his ears. He appreciated the determination set into your eyes as you argued with Donna to keep the exhibit up, appreciated the humbleness as you were met with yet another compliment on your work. 

You were perfect, and Steven couldn’t help but fall hopelessly for you, even though he could barely get words out when you stood in front of him in all your glory.

“Steven, hey! What’re you still doing here?” You smiled softly at him, still hovering by the door. “Uh, well, Donna decided to put me on inventory.” Steven took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heartbeat.

You frowned. “Huh, that’s funny. I told her not to do that.”

“Well, Donna doesn’t really listen to anyone who isn’t controlling her paycheck, does she?” He cringed as soon as the words left his mouth, too stunned by the fact that you’d asked Donna not to put him on inventory to form any coherent thoughts at the moment. Gods, he was down so bad if that was making him flustered.

You snorted, much to his surprise. “You have a point.”

“Is everything okay? Why are you still here?” He asked, taking in the way that you still hovered by the door, most of your body hidden. 

“Well, um,” you looked down, seemingly shy. “I brought you something.”

He furrowed his brows. “Why?”

You tilted your head. “For your birthday. Today is your birthday, right?”

And that, that right there, was the type of thing that would make his knees buckle. The fact that you, out of all people, remembered his birthday when he’d told you a grand total of once. It was an offhand comment, you were talking about your mother’s birthday and he’d shot in that your mother and he had the same birth week, to which you’d asked which day and wished him an early birthday before you’d been dragged away by Donna. The fact that you had gone out of your way to buy him something, that you’d spent time and money on something for him. 

He was sure you could hear the way his jaw clambered to the floor, could see the way his hands gripped the countertop and he leaned onto it for support. “For– for me?” He fumbled. You nodded. “For you.” With that, you came out from behind the door and into the room fully. In your hands you held a paper plate, and sitting atop it was nothing other than a birthday cake. You placed it on the counter in front of him, and he could see the little egyptian hieroglyphics you’d drawn onto it with navy blue frosting. 

Steven couldn’t function. It was like you’d fried his motherboards, like you’d just produced the key that unlocked his heart. He all but melted at the gesture now more than ever. 

“Aww, Steven, don’t cry.” Your voice brought him out of his head, and he brought his hand up to his eyes to wipe the tears that slipped out. “I’m sorry, it’s just–” he sniffled. “No one’s ever done this for me before.”

“You’ve never had a birthday cake?”

“Not one that someone else has made me, no, not for a very long time.”

“Steven Grant,” you rounded the countertop to stand next to him, your stern face slightly terrifying. “That is a very big problem. I'm glad I've cured you of that.”

He smiled earnestly. “Yeah, I am too.”

“Also,” you grabbed the edge of the plate, dragging it closer. “I hope you like vanilla cake. I actually couldn’t go out and get more cocoa powder, so… also, the frosting might be a bit strong– I put some cinnamon in it.”

“Yeah, that’s better than alright. I bloody love cinnamon. How’d you know?”

“I saw you when you found those cinnamon rolls at the cafeteria… and I supposed you liked cinnamon a lot. And then I found some at the store, so I picked it up.”

“You are amazing.” He was sure that sounded sappy and that he had a stupidly wide grin on his face, but he couldn’t even bring himself to care anymore. 

“Says you.” you shot back.

Steven chuckled, turning back to his cake and swiping a bit of frosting off in an attempt to save himself from turning into a blushing mess. 

“Listen,” you cracked into the silence, twisting your hands together impossibly tight. “If you don’t otherwise have plans, would you like to come back to my place? We could get pizza, watch some movies, but only if you want, of course. I don’t want to intrude–”

“I would love to.” the words were out of his mouth before he could even put together a coherent thought about it. 

“Cool, alright,” You beamed. “Grab your coat and let’s go, Grant.”

Oh, how he loved his birthday.

a/n: thank you for this, lovely anon, i enjoyed writing it! and also thank you to @themistwithinthemystery for proofing this! feel free to pop by my inbox anytime, everyone, and leave a request or just a thought :)