#like he literally gave her a pothos (which is the easiest plant on the planet to take care of) and she somehow killed it in record time

[livwritesstuff]

plant dad steve my beloved

“Alright, Steve-o, I gotta head out,” Robin says, sticking a wrapped granola bar between her teeth so she has a free hand to grab Steve’s car keys off the kitchen counter, “I have something for you, though.”

She shoves the plain brown paper bag she’d been holding into Steve’s arms with an expectant look on her face.

Steve raises an eyebrow.

“Now?”

“Yes, now. I didn’t want to wait until later because — well, just look and you’ll get it.”

Steve opens the bag and knows instantly it’s a plant. He reaches inside and pulls it out by the plastic pot.

“Oh shit, an alocasia! Thanks, Rob, this is a good fuckin’ find.”

Robin doesn’t respond immediately, her eyes on the big, green leaves of the alocasia plant.

Steve glances up at her.

“You good?”

“Yeah, it’s just…you think those leaves kinda look like the Mind Flayer?”

“What the fu—” he stops, glancing at the alocasia again, “Shit, man, it kinda does.”

Robin starts to snicker, because it’s been seven years since the gates to the Upside Down were closed for good, seven years of growth and healing, so she can laugh about some of those things now and Steve can’t help a laugh either.

“Stop ruining shit for me, Rob.”

“I’m sorry. Pretend I didn’t say anything. Look — when I bought it the guy said it hasn’t been watered in a while and needs a new pot and all that kinda crap you get excited about so now you have a project for today to take your mind off of how you’re spending your birthday all alone.”

Steve smacks her arm.

“Don’t be a dick, you’re the reason we’re in Tacoma, anyways.”

“No,” Robin argued, moving towards the door, “I’m the reason we came to Tacoma. You’re the reason we’re still here and will be for another two goddamn years. I’ll be back at, like, four, and there better not be potting soil all over the place.”

“Whatever. That’s still better than your fuckin’ paint,” he fires back as she’s walking out the door, “Drive safe. Don’t crash my car.”

“Uh-huh,” she calls, already halfway down the hall, “Love ya!”

And then she’s gone.

Steve looks back to his new plant. It really does look like the Mind Flayer — something about the shape of the leaves, he thinks — but a plant, in his eyes, is still a plant no matter how many traumatic memories it may trigger, so it doesn’t take long for him to put on a mixtape Eddie had made for him a few weeks back that he’s been listening to pretty much nonstop and busy himself with the alocasia.

Steve had started caring for houseplants nearly five years ago now, when his advisor had given out small ferns at a course registration event during his sophomore year of college. He had expected the plant to wither away and die after only a few weeks but, to his own astonishment, it actually thrived under his care. Not long later, the nearby grocery store put out a little display of houseplants in colorful plastic pots so, with all the confidence of someone who'd successfully kept one plant alive for a month, Steve bought two.

Honestly, Steve hadn’t expected to have a green thumb in the way he apparently does. After all, each one of his plants has different needs from the next, different light or water or soil or some unique combination of the three. He hadn’t expected that he’d be able to keep it all straight in his (somewhat mangled) brain — the same brain that still hasn’t memorized his course schedule for this semester yet — but pursuing a doctorate in psychology has taught him that he’s actually good at learning when it's something he cares about, something he can find a passion in.

And he really does like the plants, too. They look nice in the apartment — they bring the cramped little space to life, he thinks, and it’s nice to be surrounded by life, to be cultivating life after everything he’s been through and everything he’s done. It’s nice to know he can keep things alive, that he can take care of something so it can grow and bloom, so he leans into it. 

After those two grocery store plants (a pothos and a dracaena that are both still alive and kicking), his collection started to increase exponentially, hitting its peak about a year later when the apartment looked more like a forest than an actual living space. Eventually, it reached a point where even Robin had needed to put her foot down, and Steve had half-heartedly admitted she was correct. After a while of giving plants away (and the odd one dying every so often), it returned to a much more reasonable state.

Steve is halfway through moving the new alocasia plant that definitely doesn’t look like the Mind Flayer at all into a larger pot, his hands filthy with potting soil he’s valiantly trying to keep out of his hair, when the phone rings.

“Shit,” he mutters, dusting off his hands as best as he can before grabbing the phone, “Hello?”

“Do my ears deceive me or is that the birthday boy?”

Steve feels himself starting to smile at the sound of Eddie’s voice, his lips twisting up before he can even think about it.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey yourself,” Eddie replies, “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks. Woulda been better if you were here.”

“Yeah, baby, I know. I wish I was there, too.”

“How’s Montana?” Steve asks, “Worth not being here?”

Eddie makes a noncommittal noise, “Not sure if traveling’s my thing. Nice to get outta Indiana, though.”

Steve hums his agreement.

CONTINUE ON AO3