"You look terrible," was the first thing Robin said when Steve opened the door.
"Funny, 'cause I feel fantastic," he muttered. Robin rolled her eyes at him. "Yeah, come in, whatever. You know, this isn't even the first concussion I've had."
"Really?" she said, looking curiously around the inside of the house. "How many have you had?"
"Uh ... about one a year, on average." He started trying to count it up, but gave up. Also, he'd just become aware that he had let in a girl while he was wearing nothing but boxers and a T-shirt. On the other hand, the girl was Robin, so she probably didn't care. She hadn't said anything about it.
"Make yourself at home," he added as she poked around in the kitchen.
"Thanks, I was planning on it. Uh, wow." She had just discovered the mess he'd made around the microwave. "Er ... what happened here?"
"I was trying to heat up some soup Mom made last night." He shrugged, which also hurt his head, and general face area.
"And you, what, dropped it?"
Steve didn't answer. It was too goddamn embarrassing that he couldn't heat up a bowl of soup without things slipping out of his hands and shattering.
That was the part that scared him. He didn't remember being clumsy like that after the last time. Or having this much trouble remembering stuff. The effects kind of built up over time, didn't they? Maybe he'd tipped over some kind of concussion threshold with this one.
It was too much effort to think about. He leaned his head against the back of the couch and listened to clinking in the kitchen. "What are you doing?" he asked eventually.
"Is there more of this?" she asked.
"Fridge. Whole big pot of it in there. Help yourself."
The microwave hummed. He drowsed on the couch, opening his eyes only when the couch dipped as Robin sat on it.
She'd brought him soup in a rugged plastic bowl, large enough not to tip easily, safe enough not to shatter if dropped. She also had brought a towel.
"This isn't necessary," Steve protested, acutely embarrassed as well as deeply touched as she spread the towel over his knees.
"I know," she said, planting the bowl on his knees, on top of the towel. "I can spoon-feed you too, if you want."
"Please don't," Steve said fervently.
"I wasn't actually going to, dingus." But she was gentle as she placed a spoon in his shaking hand, and she sat next to him on the couch and distracted him and made him laugh until he'd eaten most of the bowl of soup, one careful spoonful at a time.
Whumptober Master List
Oct. 1 - Shaky Hands - also on Tumblr
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