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When he’s really tired, Steve will rub at his left eyebrow bone absentmindedly.
Eddie can’t really pinpoint when he first discovered the habit; it just feels like something he has always known.
Like now, the way Steve’s index finger digs into the arch somehow tells him that Steve had a late night, not through choice—probably lay awake until four in the morning, then began his day with a dull ache radiating from the top of his head.
And… Eddie glances at the clock in his hospital room—yup, Steve’s right on time to crash by four in the afternoon.
He would offer his own damn bed were it not for the fact that he’s more than aware Steve would adamantly refuse.
At this point Eddie almost feels like he has no need of a hospital bed himself, although he knows that’s not true: getting discharged’s on the horizon, but he’s not naive enough to think he’s completely recovered yet—knows his aches and pains will no doubt come back with a vengeance when he returns home.
But that doesn’t change the fact that in amongst the bouts of frustration and boredom, of feeling like all he’s doing is waiting, this little in-between is… nice. He’s gotten into the swing of it by now, knows the pattern.
He’ll keep an eye on the clock, let Steve sleep for a couple hours then gently wake him so he isn’t late: he’s got dinner with the Buckleys tonight followed by a viewing of Murder, She Wrote.
Eddie’s picked up enough to work out that it’s a routine which began last fall; Robin said during their first viewing, Steve sat on an armchair which her dad would usually favour without realising, and her dad cracked an incredibly corny joke about the balance of the universe being disrupted—and she had to privately reassure Steve that the man wearing odd socks, jeans and a faded pyjama shirt at 8pm was, in fact, just kidding.
The routine continued even when things were at their most dire—Eddie knows that he almost caused them to miss an episode at the end of Spring Break.
“Yeah, you really should’ve considered that, dude,” Steve had joked—once they were out of the woods, once he was no longer gripping the back of his chair with white knuckles. (When Eddie could finally breathe a little better.)
“We all have flaws,” Robin said magnanimously; Eddie could feel her hand squeezing his beneath the bedsheets.
A soft clatter of a pencil being dropped onto the floor, rolling to an eventual stop.
Steve’s got a pad of paper resting on his knee. It’s one him and Robin share, taking turns at coming up with more and more outlandish predictions for upcoming episodes.
Eddie can see no such notes on the page right now, not even words: just drowsy pencil trails, getting increasingly faint.
The pad slips from Steve’s knee, slides down to the floor to join the pencil.
Steve reaches for it way too late. Eddie smiles.
“Just leave it, Steve,” he says. “I’ll get it.”
Steve hums in vague acknowledgment. Presses a finger just above his eye, blinks so slowly.
“Mm, why?”
Here’s the song and dance; Eddie could set it to music.
“Cause you’re gonna fall asleep,” he teases, sing-song.
Steve feigns bafflement even as his head’s tipping down to the armrest of the couch. Yeah, another sleepover at Robin’s is definitely in the cards.
“Oh, yeah? How’d you—” a yawn, “—figure that, smarty pants?”
“Guess I just know you,” Eddie says.
Steve’s breathing starts to deepen; his hand gradually falls away from his face, lips already forming unintelligible murmurs. Heavy eyes shut.
And here’s another pattern Eddie’s come to know, like sheet music memorised—engraved on his heart.
Because I love you.