a very, very, very fine house (our house)

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/42003138.

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: Gen
Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Relationship: Steve Harrington & The Party, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington
Character: Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley, Original Male Character(s), briefly
featuring the following:, Dustin Henderson, Erica Sinclair, Lucas Sinclair
Additional Tags: Steve Harrington-centric, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington Friendship,
Light Angst, Fluff, Identity Issues, Food, Screenplay/Script Format, in
one section. the rest is prose, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents,
Steve Harrington Has Absent Parents, Post-Season/Series 03, Pre-
Season/Series 04, Polyglot Robin Buckley, Italian-American Character,
Italian Steve Harrington, Betaed, Cooking
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2022-09-28 Words: 4766

a very, very, very fine house (our house)

by youngrevival

Summary

But this isn’t before. This is after, when Steve sleeps downstairs with all the lights on and
his nail bat at the bottom of his bed. And this Steve, the after Steve, thinks that having no
one else in the house is pretty lonely, actually.

(In which the Harrington house, perhaps for the first time, becomes a family home.)

Notes

Hello.

First off, I’d like to say thank you for checking this fic out! Very cool! Secondly I would
like to say that this concept began as a multi-chap idea, and those other chapters may still
be written. However, they are not necessary to the story, so this work will continually be
marked as complete no matter how many chapters do or do not get added.

I have attempted to be at least slightly American here, which is not my natural state. If you
are American and something is glaringly incorrect please tell me so in the comments and I
will fix it! Same goes for any Italian folks.

Finally, there will be more author’s notes at the end - including a translation for all the
Italian used, as well as some things I found out while researching for this fic!
 I’m super excited to let you all read this, so without further ado: enjoy :)

See the end of the work for more notes

Steve Harrington doesn’t know how to cook.

Well. He does. But it’s a whole thing - cooking for one is so much effort and money that it kind of
sucks, and also it’s a little scary to have the regularity of your nutrition hinge on your own
competence. So maybe it’s more accurate to say that Steve just… doesn’t cook.

He could. But he won’t.

Regardless of this, the kitchen is full of cupboards, most of them packed with far more crockery
than a three-person family would ever need (and certainly more than one person would ever need).
The spice cupboard is full to bursting - herbs and spices keep forever and Steve’s parents like
having everything ready for when they need it.

Liked. Needed. They aren’t around anymore.

And see, that’s funny, because when people say that they usually mean dead, but Steve’s parents
aren’t dead. They just decided that Hawkins… wasn’t for them anymore. At all. Which is fine with
Steve, really. Before, three years ago, it would even have been better - completely free rein of the
house, never worrying about his folks coming home? King Steve would have had a conniption just
thinking about all the parties he could throw.

But this isn’t before. This is after, when Steve sleeps downstairs with all the lights on and his nail
bat at the bottom of his bed. And this Steve, the after Steve, thinks that having no one else in the
house is pretty lonely, actually.

So- yeah. He doesn’t cook. And he doesn’t like the kitchen that much.

He doesn’t like the dining room either, but it’s where he usually eats. Force of habit, or whatever -
when his parents still lived here, they ate every meal in the dining room. Every meal. Steve used to
skip breakfast sometimes, just so he wouldn’t have to set foot in there.

Once, when he was younger, he’d actually asked if he could eat dinner in his room. It… didn’t go
down well. Harringtons don’t fuss, and they don’t run away just because they want to, Steven.
Your mother put so much work into cooking for us tonight, didn't you stop to think how she might
feel if you didn’t appreciate that? You should try to be a little more considerate.

He’d never asked to eat elsewhere again.

So yeah, Steve hates the dining room - always has, but it’s worse now that he’s alone. The table is
massive, dark as sin, and so shiny that Steve has used it as a mirror to fix his hair over breakfast a
few times. And the chairs are upholstered in leather, which sucks because he always feels like he’ll
spill something on them and it won’t come out.

His parents always sat across from him, when they were home, and it felt like a test every
time. When he was interviewed for the job at Scoops Ahoy, it was the easiest thing in the world -
he’d had so many years of experience being judged from across a table that it felt… natural,
almost. Normal.
The difference at Scoops was Robin. Maybe the difference can be Robin here, too. Maybe he needs
to- to let someone in, or something.

And he probably does, is the thing - even as he looks around the dining room, he knows he needs
someone else here in this big, lonely house. But it’s- hard.

He can almost hear Dustin in his head at that - dude, it doesn’t have to be hard. It’s not any harder
than just… picking up the phone. Giving her a call. Right?

Right, Steve replies, sullen (but encouraged nonetheless). Giving her a call.

After that, it’s pretty easy. He knows Robin’s number off by heart - which isn’t as weird as it could
be, actually, because, well. Russian torture sessions, and what comes after them, tend to foster a
particularly strong kind of friendship.

“Steve, this is, like, chronically impulsive. To an almost impressive extent. You do realise that,
right?” Robin’s voice crackles over the phone. And- yeah. That’s the whole point. “Like, you don’t
even know what you want to make, you’ve got no ingredients for anything-”

“Robin. Robin. I know. Just- We can cook spaghetti, or something, just- like, come over. We can…
hang out, or whatever.”

So, because Robin Buckley is a saint among women, she ditches whatever she’s doing and makes
her way to the Harrington house, just like that.

“Hey, dingus,” she smiles when Steve opens the door. He steps aside to let her in, and then they’re
making their way to the kitchen. On the way, Robin continues berating him for his appalling lack
of planning - the best part is, Steve isn’t even mad about it. He’s ecstatic.

“So… what, exactly, are we cooking?”

“I dunno, Rob, and that’s kind of the point,” Steve says back, snarky and dramatic even as he roots
around for a recipe book. He lands on Papa Rossi’s, which is one of his mom’s Italian cookbooks.
Not her favourite - he doesn’t think she cooked enough to have a favourite - but it’s probably as old
as Steve, which is weird to think about. He closes his hand around it and pauses for a moment,
thinking of oh, bambino, you are going to love this! Later, that had turned into la cuoca made this,
darling, doesn’t it look fantastic? and the mantra of it’s polite to clear your plate, Stefano had
prevailed through everything.

The last one was always the worst, because he tried, but some days he just couldn’t eat everything
and was that really such a crime? It’s not like he starved himself, or whatever, he just didn’t like to
overeat. Unfortunately, his parents never saw it that way - every time something was left uneaten,
there was always a whole investigation into why.

Then Robin’s voice breaks through the haze, and he wonders for a second what she would think of
his mom calling him Stefano. She’d laugh, probably. The thought is enough to make him finally
pull the book out from its resting place, and turn to Robin.

“Do you wanna see what looks good in here?”

Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes, I really need you to say yes to this-

“Sure. As long as it isn’t all in Italian, ‘cause I am not translating it for you.”

Oh. Yeah. Steadfastly ignoring the sudden constriction of his throat (he’s not worried he might
have to explain his Italian fluency, that would be stupid), Steve flips to a random page to check.

“Don’t worry. It’s in English.”

“Oh, okay,” Robin says as she hops up to sit on the kitchen counter. It looks less clinical with her
on it - more… comfortable. “So, Signore, what are we making?”

And- right. Again, Robin doesn’t actually know he’s Italian-American, so she’s obviously just
being her usual self, but. Well. It makes Steve panic a little, for some reason? It feels like he’s
ashamed of his heritage, almost, but that isn’t quite true. It just feels- personal, sort of. Secret.

“Well,” he says awkwardly, dragging it out as he flips through the book, “we could- oh, they have
cucina povera recipes in here, cool- uh.. okay, Robin, do you just wanna come look at this?”

So, for the next twenty minutes, that’s what they do. They flick through a good portion of the
book, and Steve dog-ears each possible recipe deliberately. His mom would hate him, if she could
see him now - good, he thinks with no small amount of venom. He’s having fun. That’s what’s
important.

At the end of those twenty minutes, Steve and Robin are still no closer to deciding on a recipe. It’s
only noon, so they have time, but still.

Steve keeps thinking about the cucina povera recipes. Robin hasn’t suggested looking through
them yet, since they’re at the back of the book, and- Steve’s never cooked any of them. Never
eaten any of them, either. Harringtons eat proper food, Steven, not that cheap trash.

He wants to try it. Even just out of spite. He wants to see; to make his own decisions for once.
Maybe it’ll be the best thing he’s ever tasted, maybe it won’t, but that’s not the point. The point is,
like- healing, or some shit. Betterment of the self. Overcoming trauma. Whatever.

Steve tugs the recipe book closer, so Robin can’t see it, and flips to the back.

“Hey! I was reading that, Steve!”

“And you can read it more in a minute, just- hang on. I’m having, like, an antipathy or whatever.”

Silence. Steve looks up to see Robin looking amusedly baffled, like she does when she’s just read a
really weird movie blurb in Family Video.

“You know,” he says, attempting to explain himself, “like- a revelation. A- a lightbulb moment, or
whatever. You do AP English, Rob, shouldn’t you know this?”

More silence. Then, slowly, “An epiphany, Steve. You’re talking about an epiphany.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, dingus. Oh. Anyway, what are you looking at? Let- let me see, come on.”

And with that, Robin successfully yanks the book over to the middle again. Steve freezes.

“Oh, I… I didn’t think you’d want to- Don’t you eat, like, fancy food? All the time?”

“Yeah,” Steve says plainly, stubbornly ignoring the dead weight sitting in his gut.

Robin, bless her, catches on pretty quickly. “Oh- sure. Okay. So… what do you want to make?”
This time, the decision is much easier (and quicker). After a few minutes of deliberation, they both
decide on ribollita, which seems to be - in essence - a kind of everything stew. It looks nice,
anyway, which is all that matters.

Funnily enough, the whole everything part of everything stew means that a lot of ingredients are
needed, and the Harrington household has almost none of them. Stale bread is easy enough, sure,
but cannellini beans? Swiss chard?

Luckily - so luckily - it’s a Sunday, which means the next town over is holding a farmer’s market.
Small mercies.

The drive takes about an hour and a half each way, which is longer than it takes to make the damn
ribollita, but it’s fine. It’ll be worth it. That’s what Steve keeps telling himself as Robin desecrates
his poor BMW in the name of “comfort”, anyway.

(“Feet do not go on dashboards, Robin!”

“Really? That’s funny, ‘cause mine seem to be going on them pretty okay.”)

The length of the drive amplifies Steve’s nerves until his fingers are tapping out an anxious beat on
the steering wheel - Robin keeps shooting him worried looks every so often, and he has to keep
pretending he doesn’t notice.

Should he tell her?

His gut instinct is hell no. No, he should not tell her. It feels wrong to even think about it. For
reasons even Steve isn’t sure of, he feels like his heritage should be secret; something no one else
has to see.

It’s probably his dad’s fault, honestly. Richard loved having an Italian wife - until he realised it
meant he would have an Italian kid. Cue years and years of Don’t talk with your hands, Steven, it’s
impolite and English, please, you know I can’t stand your attempts at Italian. While his mother
flitted around, expressively and unapologetically Italiana, little Stevie was forced into the stuffy
coffin of American cultural neutrality.

Through time and distance, Steve can tell that it was probably a bit of a marketing ploy. Look at
me, look at my son, look at how American Dream we both are.

(Richard wasn’t quite the sole reason for the invention of King Steve, but he was certainly a
reason.)

He’s already given his Dad several metaphorical middle fingers today, though - so, now that he
thinks about it…

What’s one more?

INT. STEVE’S CAR - DAY

ROBIN sits shotgun, glancing worriedly at STEVE every so often. STEVE, for his part, is looking
out the windshield a little too intently. There is a very awkward atmosphere in the car. Before the
action starts, there should be at least ten seconds of dead silence. The only sounds are the radio
(turned down low) and the rumble of the car on the road.

STEVE: (Apropos of nothing) Robin?

ROBIN: (Immediately matching STEVE’S serious tone) Steve?

STEVE: ( Very awkwardly) Uh. Can I-… I need to… tell you something.

ROBIN, getting some serious Bathroom Confession of ‘85 vibes, turns to fully face STEVE. Her
expression is deliberately open and supportive.

ROBIN: What’s up?

STEVE: (stuttering the whole way through) Okay, but- but you can’t get mad, or - or laugh at me
or whatever. ‘Cause you’re gonna think it’s stupid, but it’s not, not to me, so. Don’t laugh.

STEVE is obeying traffic laws better than he ever has before, and is still looking steadfastly at the
road. It’s easy to tell that ROBIN wants to say an awful lot of things, but she’s obviously holding
back for STEVE’S sake.

ROBIN: No laughing. Promise.

STEVE: I’m…

ROBIN visibly lights up - she can tell where this is going.

STEVE: (CONT’D) Half Italian. My Mom is from Italy.

A beat. STEVE is almost shaking from the sheer effort of revealing such a secret. ROBIN’s face
has fallen slightly, and she looks… shocked, to say the least.

ROBIN: You're… Okay. So this was- (Pause) (Confused) What was this?

STEVE: I don’t know. (Beat.) (Quicker, almost rushed) I don’t know. I just- it felt like I needed to
do- something. To make it… Easier. To live with myself - that part of myself. You ever- you ever
get that?

ROBIN: (Quietly, understanding) Yeah. Yeah, that makes… sense.

Silence. STEVE looks tired.

ROBIN: So… can you speak Italian?

STEVE: Yeah. Haven’t had much practice lately, but… yeah.

ROBIN isn’t quite sure what to say to that. Neither is STEVE.

ROBIN: (turning away from Steve to look out the car window) Cool.

Eventually, they make it to the market. It’s now solidly the afternoon, and Steve and Robin
stumble out of the car with stiff legs and a little motion sickness.

When Steve can finally bring himself to look up, he’s immediately overwhelmed. There are… so
many stalls.

It doesn’t get better as they walk around looking for a good vegetable stall. In fact, it gets worse.
There are people bustling every which way, and all of them are talking - this, of course, results in
the average volume being much louder than normal conversation. Everybody is shouting, it seems
like, haggling for better prices and being outraged when something doesn’t go quite to plan.

(At least it’s not the eerie silence of the Hawkins forest.)

Okay, Steve thinks to himself, thanks for that. That’s great. Really helpful for him to be thinking
that when he has enough to focus on already, even without thinking about tunnels and nail bats and
pools and malls and-

“-eve? Steve, hey! You good?”

Steve sighs out a dry little laugh. “Yeah, Rob. Sorry. I just, uh,” he pauses, trying to figure out
what the right words are, but ends up settling for a lame shrug. Robin seems to take it in stride,
thankfully, and just grabs his hand before tugging him further into the market. Somehow, still no
veg stalls.

At last, Robin spies a potential candidate. Steve is still a little out of it, so he stands there
awkwardly while Robin looks for the ingredients they need.

Abruptly, the stall owner says (far more snidely than she has any right to), ”Are you cooking for
your boyfriend, dear?”

Steve’s eyes harden, and a split second decision makes him tug Robin a little closer to him, wrap an
arm around hers, and smile brightly. First of all, her insinuation is wrong on levels she’ll never
even know, and second of all it’s just plain rude. Who just assumes something like that? It’s dumb,
and Steve is not above using people’s dumb assumptions to make them feel a little awkward.

“No,” he says sunnily, “I’m making a casserole tonight.”

Immediately, the stall owner’s face twists into a tight, confused smile. It’s almost comical, how
something so small can make people so uncomfortable. Steve wonders what mental gymnastics are
being performed right before his eyes. He supposes he’ll never know what she thinks of him now,
but it’s funny to guess.

“Sorry for bothering you,” Robin adds as she dumps the single leek she’s acquired back into its
crate. They beat a pretty hasty retreat after that.

A few minutes of wandering later, Robin bats his arm and hisses, “Steve. Steve. Two o’clock.”

Steve blinks, because it’s nowhere near two yet, and then kicks himself as he looks at the stall
Robin was obviously referring to.

The table looks very full of produce, so this is probably the best bet they’ll have for actually
buying everything. They have eight different kinds of vegetables to buy, as well as the beans, so-

Well. It’s a really big stall.

The shopkeeper, stout and sunburnt, calls out a cheerful greeting to them as they approach, and
when they reach the stall he’s already talking to them rapidly.

“Hello! Ciao! English? Italiano? English. What do you need, what do you need?”

Steve, though he’s not proud of it, does a full double-take.

Italiano.

“Uh- Italiano, per favore?”

The shopkeeper lights up - there’s no better word for it. Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen
someone look so openly joyful.

“Va bene,” he says, which Steve remembers translates as okay, and then he shakes his head in
disbelief and repeats it again. “Non sono tanti gli italiani in America. È bello vederti.”

Robin is looking at him like she’s ready to jump in whenever he needs, but also like she’s proud of
him. It makes him a little ashamed to admit what he’s about to, but…

“My Italian isn’t nearly fluent enough for conversation, Rob, can you translate what he’s saying for
me? Like- the whole time, not just now.”

Robin pauses for a second, processing, then nods enthusiastically. “Sure. He just said there aren’t
many Italians in America, and that it’s good to see you.”

Steve can’t help it. He grins like a little kid. “Anche tu,” he replies. “Mi… Mi sento- Mi sembrava
di essere solo.”

The shopkeeper tuts at him. “Non sei mai solo. Ora, di cosa hai bisogno?”

Robin translates, quick as a whip. “He’s saying that you’re never alone,” she smiles, and the
reassurance in her voice is palpable. “He’s also asking what you need - what we need.”

Slightly embarrassed (and a little teary), Steve recites their shopping list to the shopkeeper.
Robin’s hawk eyes take note of how much everything costs, and somehow she manages to translate
for Steve at the same time. She’s a wonder, truly.

When the last item is in the bag, the shopkeeper pauses his small-talk to resume the more standard
customer-seller script. “È tutto? Sì? Va bene... quattro dollari, per favore.”

For the first time in the whole conversation, Robin jumps in of her own accord. “Quattro- Signore,
l’ho aggiunto. Non è cinque dollari e settantacinque centesimi?”

“Sì, ma paghi quattro dollari. Credi che lascerei che la mia famiglia paghi il prezzo intero?”

The shopkeeper gestures to Steve as he speaks, and even though Steve’s spoken Italian is rusty, he
can absolutely make out the phrase mia famiglia. My family.

“Robin,” he says desperately, smacking her in the arm. When he turns to face her, she’s already
looking back at him.

Very slowly, and with exactly the right amount of gravity, Robin translates. “He’s saying that yes,
it’s five dollars seventy-five for everything, but for you it’s four dollars. You think he’ll let you -
let his family - pay the full price?”

With tears in his eyes (and spilling down his cheeks, and soaking the sleeves of his sweater as he
wipes them away), Steve forks over the five dollars. “Grazie,” he says as he takes the bag of
produce - and then, when that isn’t quite enough, “Grazie mille. Questo è così gentile. Sei così
gentile.”

“Prego,” comes the automatic response, and then the shopkeeper pauses, as if thinking something
over. He turns away suddenly, and when he turns back around he slips a piece of paper into Steve’s
free hand.

“Questo è il mio indirizzo di casa. Puoi scrivermi se vuoi,” he says gently. Home address. Write to
me.

Robin starts to translate again, and Steve, still staring at the shopkeeper, flails his free arm around
until his hand makes contact with Robin’s… something. “Rob, I- I got it,” he manages to mumble,
because his Italian is rusty, it’s not non-existent, and also because this conversation feels a little too
raw for such blatant spectatorship.

This man, this forty-something stranger, is- is volunteering- Steve doesn’t even know. Is
volunteering his time, his energy, his own home address, for- for Steve. For a lonely half-Italian
kid he’s never met before.

Wildly, Steve thinks that it’s a bit too much, all the love he’s being given. He’s never had this kind
of love to store up before, so- where does he put it? What does he do with it? Does he let it sit in
his gut, in his chest, in his head? Where does it go?

Where does it go, this serving, giving love, where - for once - he’s not the servant but the served?

Before he can really think about it, Steve’s blurting out, “Non l'ho mai fatto prima.”

Then, because that sounds awkward and weird and nonsensical, he quickly tags on, “Voglio dire-
voglio dire, non ho mai avuto qualcuno con cui parlare. Non- non su questo.”

“Ora hai qualcuno.”

“Sì. Lo so. Grazie ancora, Signore.”

“Prego,” the shopkeeper says again, and the three of them just stand there for a moment, letting the
weight of everything wash over them.

At length, the shopkeeper sighs and waves them off with a brisk, “Basta chiacchierare. È stato
bello conoscerti. Ci rivedremo presto, sì?”

“Sì,” Steve and Robin chorus, and they look at each other with laughing eyes.

“Arrivederci,” Steve says quietly. The shopkeeper nods, and turns away. Steve clutches the slip of
paper in his hand even tighter.

Going back home is hard. What do you even say, after any of that?

But eventually, the Beemer pulls back into the Harrington driveway, and life goes on. Robin and
Steve unpack all the groceries, and start cooking. The recipe book says it takes an hour, which
means it’ll be ready for dinner at the speed the two of them will be cooking - that is, slowly.
Neither of them are exactly confident about this kind of thing. Either way, Robin is peeling carrots
while Steve cuts stale bread into cubes, and it’s- well, it’s nice. It’s really nice. Steve’s never
cooked with anyone else before, and he’s willing to bet Robin hasn’t either.

If Steve’s being honest, the part with the tinned tomatoes is the worst, but it’s also the funniest.
The recipe says to squeeze the tomatoes between your hands to break them up, which is so gross
and they complain about it the whole time. Robin, especially, squeals and whines and gripes
through the entire thing, but at the end of it both of them are laughing (and covered in tomato
juice), so Steve counts it as a win.

While the vegetables are simmering away, Steve gets out his walkie talkie and tells the kids to
come over for dinner. It’s still early enough, so they shouldn’t have had any yet, and it would be...
well, it would be good to see them. Good for them to share in this part of Steve, this part he’s
trying to make peace with.

In the end, the dinner table is populated by Dustin, Lucas, Erica, Steve and Robin. Max didn’t want
to come, which Steve tries not to read into too much. She’s struggling - really struggling - after the
death of her brother, step- or not. Steve can’t fault her for that. He knows, though, that he’ll end up
taking two portions of ribollita over to the Mayfield trailer at the end of the night. The recipe says
it should serve eight, so they’ll definitely have enough spare even if Steve keeps some for Robin
and him to eat for lunch tomorrow.

That’s all for later, though, because right now Steve is carrying bowls of ribollita into the dining
room for the kids to assess and (hopefully) eat. He thinks the dining room doesn’t look quite as
soulless with them in it.

“Steve,” Dustin hedges when a bowl is put in front of him, “this does not look… good.”

Steve, for the millionth time, thinks that’s not the point. Or maybe that it is the point, really. That
he doesn’t have to do things perfectly for them to be worth it - for them to be good for him.

Instead of saying any of that, he just sighs. “If it sucks, Henderson, we can get pizza or something.
But just- try it. It’s new for me too.”

Dustin raises his eyebrows like if you say so, and Erica looks at Steve like you better get us pizza,
and Lucas just nods easily.

The dining room table, in concept, seats ten; four on each side, one at each end. Steve does not
want to sit at the head of the table, he knew that before he even walked into the room, and luckily
Erica has taken that responsibility upon herself. Selfishly, Steve is a little glad it was her; now
Robin and Steve can sit together, and so can Lucas and Dustin. Steve thinks they all probably need
that, a little bit.

Dustin, with great solemnity, picks up his spoon and takes his first bite of ribollita. He frowns.
Steve, though it’s stupid, holds his breath.

“I think,” Dustin says at length, “there isn’t enough tomato. But it’s good!”

Lucas grins at Steve nervously, gives a quiet agreement. Erica is… not convinced.

“It looks like someone threw up,” she says drily.

“Thanks, Erica,” Steve snipes back, tight, before he can stop himself. “Really helpful, while we’re
all trying to eat.”

Erica snorts, rolls her eyes, says sorry in the kind of tone that means she isn’t sorry at all.

Despite Erica’s habit of voicing her most inconvenient opinions, Steve thinks the ribollita is really
good, to be honest. Hearty, warming, autumnal. And he- he made it. He made it, with the help of
someone he really cares about, and it tastes great. Not only that, but he made it with his Mom’s old
cookbook, in his own kitchen. Served it out onto the good china. Is eating it in the family dining
room.

The kids make the table seem smaller, less intimidating. Giggling, they make the leather chairs
squeak as much as possible. Robin chips her bowl, and Steve is so, so glad that he can laugh about
it.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Lucas asks what the occasion is, because you never invite us
 over to your house, Steve, and you definitely don’t invite us for dinner.

Steve takes a breath. Looks at Robin. Robin looks back at him, asks-without-asking do you want to
do this?

Steve decides yes.

“Yeah, uh- I’m half-Italian, so. I thought I’d try and make something to- to do with that, y’know?”

The kids look at him.

“You’re Italian?” Erica yells quietly (she’s very talented at doing that, Steve has found).

Dustin squints, contemplating, then makes direct eye contact with Steve and asks, “Does that mean
you know the hand language?”

Steve feels like a lagging VHS, replaying the same two seconds over and over again. Distantly, he
hears Lucas exclaim, “Dude, what?”

“Yeah,” Steve says when he’s rejoined reality. “What- Henderson, what do you mean, the- the
hand language, man, what does that even-”

“I mean like the hand language, Steve, come on.” Dustin makes a series of wild, incomprehensible
gestures, seemingly to demonstrate his point.

Robin must somehow understand what he means, because suddenly she’s going, “Oh, you mean
like…”

Turning to face Steve with a very smooth and impressive 90 degree pivot, she makes a series of
exaggerated movements (even for Robin they’re exaggerated, which is saying something) and
proclaims, in the most over-dramatic Italian accent she can muster, “Steve, intende come i film
sulla mafia italiana.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, okay, sure,” Steve says, because that makes a lot more sense than the hand
language. Then, thinking about it more, “Wait, is that real?”

So, overall, it’s a good evening. A great evening. Steve feels a little less intimidated by living in
his own house afterwards.

He resolves to make group dinners a thing, and starts packing the leftover ribollita into
Tupperwares.

End Notes

Glossary

• cucina povera - literally translates to “poor food”, basically a type of Italian cuisine that is
designed to last a long time and to use very little

A lot of the spoken italian is translated in-prose, but here’s what isn’t:
 • Anche tu - You too
• Mi… Mi sento- Mi sembrava di essere solo. - I… I think- I thought I was alone.
• È tutto? Sì? Va bene... quattro dollari, per favore. - Is that all? Yes? Okay… four dollars,
please.
• Quattro- Signore, l’ho aggiunto. Non è cinque dollari e settantacinque centesimi? - Four-
Sir, I added it up. Isn’t it five dollars and seventy-five cents?
• Grazie - Thank you
• Grazie mille. Questo è così gentile. Sei così gentile. - A thousand thanks. This is so kind.
You are so kind.
• Prego - you’re welcome
• Questo è il mio indirizzo di casa. Puoi scrivermi se vuoi. - This is my home address. You
can write to me if you want.
• Non l'ho mai fatto prima. - I’ve never done this before.
• Voglio dire- voglio dire, non ho mai avuto qualcuno con cui parlare. Non- non su questo.
- I mean- I mean, I've never had anyone to talk to. Not- not about this.
• Ora hai qualcuno. - Now you have someone.
• Sì. Lo so. Grazie ancora, Signore. - Yes. I know. Thanks again, sir.
• Basta chiacchierare. È stato bello conoscerti. Ci rivedremo presto, sì? - Enough chat. It
was nice to meet you. We will meet again soon, yes?
• Arrivederci - see you soon
• Steve, intende come i film sulla mafia italiana. - Steve, he means like in a movie about the
Italian mafia.

Additional notes: (Terribly sorry, this has become one of those monstrous works with notes
almost as long as the fic itself)
- Title is from Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young’s Our House, which I listened to loads while
I wrote this.
- Papa Rossi’s refers to a real italian cookbook called Papa Rossi’s Secrets of Italian
Cooking. I do not know if it has any cucina povera recipes, let alone ribollita, but it’s
period-accurate and Italian which is all I could ask for.
- $5.75 is equivalent to $15.83 in modern American dollars. $4.00 is the equivalent of
$11.01

Finally, some thank-yous:

To Bee, for their incredible support and their very useful betaing services.
To Chase, for brainstorming with me and being just as excited about this as I was (and am.)
To all of my friends, especially those in the CHRISTIN discord server, who cheered me on
through this story and its growth. You’ve all been fantastic.

See you all next time :)

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