For those that haven't read 'Big Bad's Back,' have no fear! Here's what happened:

Spike returned to warn the gang that The First was planning another attack, and Faith and Robin – who had been living in Cleveland – were called in to help. However, The First had possessed Faith in order to find out the gang's plans, and was using her to control a race of demons It had created. The only way to stop these demons, and the apocalypse, was by killing Faith – something that circumstance forced Robin to do and something that completely broke him.
He then fled from their company soon after her funeral, and returned to their apartment. This story picks up a few months on.

Disclaimer: The OC is a creation of my own, but other recognisable things belong to Joss. I should also say that the film 'Leon' – which you should watch if you haven't – was an inspiration when coming up with Robin's job, so credit there as well :)

Readers are needed. Reviewers are wanted.

If a stranger had walked into the house, it would've seemed like any other normal, one bed roomed apartment: kitchenette to the left of the door, the space directly in front of it making itself useful as the main living area while two doors – one to the right of the TV, which stood in the corner, the other on the wall just beyond the kitchen – led to the bedroom and bathroom respectively. Various pictures of the couple that lived there were scattered around the space and the whole atmosphere gave the impression of being comfortable, well-lived in and welcoming.

To him, it was empty. Desolate. Nothing.

As he moved, kicking the door shut, it could have been any room in any apartment block in any street of any town with how recognisable it was to him. His eyes lingered momentarily on the black duffel bag he had slung onto the sofa before he moved quickly into the bathroom. Turning on the shower with a sharp twist, he undressed quickly, not even registering his reflection in the mirror before stepping under the spray of water. It was too hot; he didn't really notice.

Running his hands along his head and face, he pressed water into his skin and felt the short hair that had grown on his scalp and the once neat beard that was now wiry and thick. They were like a fungus, growing unwanted – a sign that he no longer cared. And why should he? No one else did.

Because there was no one else.

The shower quickly came to an end. Afterwards, he roughly towelled himself dry before dressing and returning to the bag that he had abandoned. Carrying it to the round kitchen table, he opened it and began sifting through the contents. He pulled out the large box he was looking for and set it on the table before carefully removing its contents.

Various weapons: ornate knives, throwing stars, hand axes, a silver dagger – all sharpened to deadly perfection – lined the table top. Then he pulled out a leather wallet, took out the large wad of bills and slid them into his pocket before replacing it and proceeding to check each of the weapons for signs of damage.

This was his ritual, every night he would follow the same procedure precisely. Silence filled the apartment – the phone never rang, the TV went unused in the corner, he never spoke.

Practice had made this task quick, and with no imperfections to fix, he almost reverently replaced his weapons in the box, placing that back in his bag and setting it down to the left of the door. Forcing his mind not to wander, he locked and bolted the door, the sound echoing in the empty room. He glanced at the clock standing dutifully on the counter: 5.54 am.

He walked into the dark bedroom and went to the bedside drawer and on opening it, he added the wad of bills he had to the stash that was already present. Having nothing else to do and hating himself for it, he sank onto the bed and although his body was grateful for the rest, his mind was shouting at him to get up, to do something – but he had nothing to do. That was the negative of never pausing in his routine: he ended up with too much time before his mind was exhausted enough to sleep, and that always led to bad things.

His routine may have been fixed and structured, but he himself was not.

"Are you kidding? She hated you!"

She smirked. "You think?"

"Definitely," he replied with a smirk of his own. "As soon as you called her a flirty whore, it was done."

"Serves her right: no one gets to mess with my man – except me," she corrected herself.

"Is that right?" he asked, smiling and pulling her closer for a kiss.

However, instead of leaning into him she struggled in his hold, somehow unable to break free. "No, Robin, don't." He ignored her, placing his hand on her back and forcefully pulling her against him. "Stop, Robin, no..." She strained against his chest, her hands hopelessly trying to create space so she could rip free, but he wouldn't be moved.

"No! Robin...Robin STOP!"

The next day started much the same as the others. Waking late to the dull, fake light of streetlamps just filtering through the black curtains, he walked heavily to the bathroom for an even quicker shower than the one the night before and then dressed simply before grabbing two slices of bread from the kitchen and stuffing them into the toaster.

He wasn't sure why he toasted the bread, it didn't make much difference in the end seeing as he hardly tasted it. He figured it was tradition, something ingrained in him since he could remember – the unspoken rules that you couldn't have certain foods for certain meals. Bread wasn't for breakfast, but toast was. That's just how it was done.

And he hated it.

Every day he used the toaster, and every day from the moment he pushed the plastic pedal down until the blackened bread popped up with a falsely cheerful ping! he had nothing, no small task to distract his mind, and that was dangerous. He was at his weakest in this moment – newly wakened with no residual adrenaline to keep him ticking – and these few minutes stretched into eternity. It was now that he had to work harder to keep the emotions and memories at bay.

Since leaving the group of Slayers over two months ago, more accurately since the night of the battle with the First, he had detached himself from everything, choosing to block the memories rather than being overcome by them.

He knew he was running, knew he was denying everything and because of that he was betraying her memory, but by now he was long used to this idea. He added this guilt to the large pile and shut it away in his mind, distracting himself through everyday tasks – but it was a struggle. It had been two months: two months since his life ended, since he had begun this charade, but already he was cracking from the emotional pressure.

So much for being a warrior, he thought dryly, breathing a thankful sigh as the toaster finally delivered his breakfast. Snatching the hot slices, he tore at one with his teeth as he went to the door and picked up his bag.

At 2.17 pm, he left the apartment.

He screwed his eyes up against the afternoon sun as he wound his way through the busy streets to his destination. As he neared it, the streets became more like alleys and the number of people passing him decreased as the number of sleeping tramps increased. Suddenly a neon sign – the colours made garish by the dull brick surrounding it – appeared ahead of him. It read: "The Dragon's Nest," and was surrounded by a red dragon breathing orange fire. He headed for it, climbing down the steps that led him to the door and pushing it open, his eyes adjusting quickly to the dim lighting.

The bar was mostly empty at this time apart from a couple of businessmen miserably looking into their shots. The barman nodded at him as usual as he wound his way around the tables, but he passed them all without pause and headed straight to a door situated opposite the entrance. Upon reaching it he entered without knocking, already knowing that he was expected.

"Wood. On time, as always."

He made his way towards the metal desk and stood silently, waiting. Leon, the tall half-human manager and the closest thing Robin had to an employer sighed at the man's silence before reaching into a desk drawer and bringing out two files.

"It's your lucky day – I've got two clients for you. Both pretty straightforward, nothing you haven't encountered before," Leon reached into his pocket and brought out a cigarette and matches. "Clients want their marks dead before next sunrise," he lit it, shaking out the match flame before dropping it onto his desk, "think you can do that?"

Robin nodded, having looked over the files as the manager was talking, and asked: "How much?"

It was all Leon ever heard him say anymore.

"$1500 for the vamp nest, $5000 for the three Chorago demons." The ex-principal nodded in agreement, lifted the folders and prepared to leave but was stopped by his employer's thick accent: "You can't keep running."

He paused slightly, a sign Leon took to mean that he was listening. "There's only so long you can block everything out. Sooner or later whatever you're avoiding's gonna hit you big time and you're gonna have to deal with it," he took a long breath of smoke and exhaled it before speaking again. "Think you can do that?"

He said it to get a rise out of him more than anything, so was surprised when Robin turned to face him with sadness and guilt clearly etched across his features. "I don't know," he replied softly, before letting himself out of the room.

Leon leant back in his chair and took another deep breath of smoke, letting it out slowly. Well, at least he said something.

"You're sure you want to do this?"

"What do you mean 'Am I sure'? I'm a Slayer, it's my job. B needs our help."

Robin watched as Faith continued packing. "Buffy hasn't talked to us since the last apocalypse – you don't think that's a bit out of order? I think she's using us, Faith-"

"So what if she is? The world could end, Robin, and I'm not gonna help The First by not fighting cause of the stupid issue that B hasn't talked to us in a year. It's just not important." Seeing her lover's uneasiness, she came to his side and wrapped her arms around him: "How about, afterwards, I'll kick her ass for ignoring us?"

He laughed and brought a hand up to push a hair away from her face: "You promise?" She smiled and leaned in towards him as his hand fell to her side and he moved closer, holding her tighter. Suddenly, her eyes were filled with pain and surprise. Both of them looked down to see the knife that Robin had thrust into her gut, the blood spreading out and staining her white shirt.

His hand tightened on the handle and he pushed it in deeper, so that the hilt skimmed the material and the tip was buried deep in her body. She looked up at him, wide eyes filled with betrayal.

"Robin?"

At 2.30am, Robin let himself into the apartment. It had been an easy night compared to some that the demon hit man had had to deal with and he only had a shallow cut on his cheek, a deep gouge in his side and several bruises to show for it.

Once he had dumped his bag, he went to the bathroom and allowed himself to glance quickly at the wound on his cheek in the mirror before stripping and stepping into the shower. Afterwards, he tightly bandaged the wound in his side and then went out to check his weapons.

None of them were damaged, and after cleaning and replacing them he took the money he had acquired for his work and went into the bedroom, adding it to the growing pile in his drawer. He shut it and lent against it heavily, letting himself breathe deeply for the first time all day.

"Hey, baby."

The voice made him freeze, his muscles tensing so hard they hurt. It took him a few minutes to be able to move in order to turn around, but when he did, he was still again – like a deer in headlights.

Faith smirked at him from across the room: "Miss me?"

AN2: this was originally a two-shot but lack of inspiration means it will be left as it is. I hope you enjoyed it anyway