The moment he tried to reach the knob and actually lost balance, he had realized how drunk he was indeed. His brain was processing John's heavy steps outside the car, scrunching the tiny rocks beneath his boots, and he even indulged a debate of whether or not tell his friend he was sorry, but besides that mild mind function, he couldn't execute a single move whatsoever.
Granted, John had been right to steal his keys and stop filling his drinks to drive him home; despite the fact he'd been told to fuck off more than enough counts ever since the evening started. It wasn't even the first night this was happening, and in all likelihood it wouldn't be the last. Robin found the s of sorry at the very tip of his drowsy tongue, though when the passenger door opened on dry hinges he suddenly forgot whatever it was that he was sorry about.
They didn't talk at all as they walked. If he wasn't being half carried by his giant friend all the way through the stairs and front door, normally he'd have realized right away that the lights on the porch were on. He'd also find it odd that John was no longer admonishing him for his actions, and that neither of them made use of a key to get the door open.
All those little signs would scarcely cross his brain only after he spotted the unmistakable woman sitting on his couch. The blurred sight of her worked on his inebriated system like a cold shower, startling him to a point of a hysteria that was the very opposite of a sober mind.
Immediately his shoes that felt so heavy glued to the floor. At that same instant, her brown eyes caught his, emanating the persisting intensity time hadn't been able to deteriorate. As if the heat of the stare was realistically burning his skin, he grasped at the swell of anger down his guts by instinct, because it was the only message his body was comprehending from this. Leave. Turn around and fucking leave. Now. Leave right now.
Robin couldn't tell if the mantra was directed to her or himself, though neither of them fled.
He heard a tiny sound rasp his throat, awfully similar to "you". He had to whisper again to formulate something more than a babble, something that would make her and her flawless hair and hot, exploratory eyes disappear. Regardless of not addressing his stony words towards her, his gaze didn't leave her for a second once he managed to utter his indignity aloud.
"You fucking didn't."
Robin was sure he'd been heard, despite the cautious silence in return. Drawing attention to the man by his side, he dared the clumsy act of taking his arm off John's shoulder, almost falling down entirely if it wasn't for the wooden wall right next to him. In the back of his mind he listened to his name being called but couldn't tell by whom, the sound of his own yelling surrounding every wall of his brain.
"You called her?" He asked, hands fisted into a ball as if there was a chance he could punch a fly right now. For a second John seemed to believe he could, if the step he took backwards meant anything. But then Regina stood up on his peripheral vision and any violence he had in him effectively shrieked away.
Leave. The voice repeated, yet his muscles wouldn't take command, and she stayed.
The hurt clawed at his chest like a vice, his eyelids shut tightly together as if by blinking he'd transport himself somewhere else - anywhere else. A mix of paradoxical emotions raged loudly all around his system. Over the months he'd prepared and came close to begging to meet her again. Thinking furtherly about it, he had even memorized a few rehearsed lines to throw her. Absolutely none of those imaginary scenarios had him so plainly falling apart.
There were voices, which barely registered over the insistent taste of booze at the edge of his amygdala, pounds in his head loud and unrelenting. John was preaching something about 'having no choice' and 'out of control'. Throughout, Robin was pretty sure he was shaking his head left and right although the movement only made him want to die.
Snapping his body away from the man's reach, he told him to go fuck himself aloud, more out of reflex mechanism than calculated intention. "You had no fucking right-", he started to bellow with a daring finger, halting himself when her voice interrupted, closer and more collected than he'd ever been or would be. Piercing through the loud commotion that had become his entire world, the sound of her voice suddenly silenced every noise.
"It's alright John." Regina said. Her hand on the other man's upper arm was the first sight to capture Robin's unfocused gaze. How his body immersed itself into a pitiful fit of envy made him all the madder. He craved that involuntary, assuring touch like air itself.
Voice filled with intoxicating resentment, Robin snickered, a bitter smile cracking up his shaggy face. "Oh, isn't that gold. You thought I was out of control so you called the controlling bitch back. Good job, brah." He mocked, lifting a hand for a high five, though in any case he were to get one, his arm couldn't hold its weight up. Ignoring them as he made his drunken way through the furniture, he came close of knocking a lamp over before throwing his useless body onto the couch.
Some kind of discussion spurred in the background, one that didn't intrigue him enough to hold his defenses any longer. He didn't even know what he was fighting for. He heard the undecipherable pieces of her honeyed, raspy voice just before darkness welcomed him like home and he was off.
When Robin woke there was a wolf howling miles away. It took him a few seconds longer to acknowledge the soreness of his body, as well as the stinging jabs against his forehead. He groaned, shifting vainly to find a position that lessened the sickness. He seemed to be drinking so many times on so many days that he'd stopped bothering to differ one from the other. The familiar knot of vodka and nicotine obstructed his throat, keeping him from going back to sleep where he didn't feel so awful. Naturally any of his attempts backfired.
Bringing one hand to scratch his eyes, he felt then that strange yet accurate sensation of being watched. The thrill of it awakened his senses entirely. He could think of a few people who would want to hurt him, the list somewhat more substantial during the last months of his life.
Flashbacks hit him all at once the moment he saw her sitting there, lit by the candid light of the lamp. With nerves hardly functional, he couldn't smother the thought of how effortlessly gorgeous she looked right then. There was something about her serene portrait that filled him with a gloomy rush of unwanted longing.
It all came to him in bits and pieces, some of them missing in the puzzle of his foggy memory. The fact that she still appeared a bit flushed and anxious hinted that it hadn't been that long ever since he drifted off.
Not tearing her gaze away from his, he heard the voice that for a very long time had haunted him on his sleep. It often still did. "I made coffee." Regina said, putting her own mug on the floor next to the chair she was now sitting.
He tried to brush off the fact that that same chair had been made by him to her, concentrating instead on something appropriate to say. The reckless boldness of alcohol had degraded considerably now, so name callings and cheap offenses no longer felt so bold. He wanted to point that coffee would only dehydrate him more, but the very idea of opening his thirsty lips made his throat quiver. He doubted he'd be able to talk anyway. His tongue was actually glued to the roof of his mouth.
Passing a hand through his face, he drew in a breath with his nose to try and settle his stomach down. His eyelids were still close when she queried, as if reading his mind, "How are you feeling?"
A few seconds flew by without an answer. If she thought his muteness was out of stubbornness, then, Robin decided he didn't care. She proved his theory right as her voice once again filled the quiet room. "You can ignore me, but I'm not going away."
There was little space in her tone to doubt what she said, though her decision wasn't what he found himself questioning. The meaning behind her sentence forced him to smile in mockery, that in the end turned out to be more like a miserable grim. He couldn't help drifting back into the past where she had ignored him, until she went away.
Moistening his lips, he made the effort of retorting, void of the menace from hours before, "Oh, I wouldn't dream of that."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means, " he barked, eyes darting towards her with the volatility that was bound to emerge. He paused before using more even, albeit frank, tones. "You leave when I don't want you to. So I'm not expecting the other way around."
Watching as a flicker of dejection changed her expressions, it was soon hidden under her impartial, programmed exterior. He would have scoffed at her calmness if the honesty of his words hadn't beaten him right back. Finally settling on looking away, it surprised him how the idea of seeing her hurt still afflicted more than any agony directly linked to him.
With a wince Robin started to sit up, all the while avoiding her unfaltering examination. At that moment he wished he didn't look so devastated. The lowest part of this whole ordeal was placing his crystal pain in the palm her hands. She'd lost his trust with it for what seemed like ages ago. It certainly felt that long.
A sting on his upper arm catching half of his attention, his gaze sought and finally spotted the cut above his skin. It was long, but altogether superficial. He obviously couldn't recall how it got there in the first place, the aspect of the blood hinting it was from a few hours in the past. He doubted he'd have payed any more care to it if it wasn't for her already pre-planned assistance.
Distracted, he'd only heard her shifting before her form was looming in front of him, legging clad legs suddenly on his line of vision. She was holding an aid kit that he rightly assumed she'd grabbed while he was out. There was also a bottle of water in her opposite hand.
A part of him heard his drunken self repeating she was a controlling bitch indeed, inciting the rational side to snap how thankful he should be for it. Ultimately this side silently won, and he took the bottle from her fingers without any show of emotion whatsoever.
He was midway through a second gulp when she sat at his side. Her body was hardly close to his, the tiny box a further obstacle in between, yet the old vibration of proximity shot a glacial stream all the way down his spine. He thought of glancing sideways and demonstrating his distaste for this range of closeness, knowing that he probably shouldn't because he was still too affected by her presence to pretend. The bottle squashed between his fingers as the translucent liquid began to disappear. The obnoxious noise was the only disturbance around them for awhile.
Once his cells finally sighed with hydration, Robin spared the most fleeting of glances towards her. Sensing what was about to happen and actually feeling a pool of panic grow in his stomach at the mere possibility, he blurted: "I'll do it."
Her eyes moved up to lock with his, that same sadness that he'd remembered from the past perpetuating their darkest nature. He knew for a fact that he hadn't been rough with her or anything, his retraction too fast to express any disgust towards her contact. He supposed then that this was likely why she seemed so upset. If the denial wasn't calculated it could only be genuine.
Dismissing it as no longer his business, he soon convinced himself that she looked sad because she was sad. That was Regina: sad, problematic, insane. Falling for her had just sugarcoated the harsh true all this time. The thought that he wanted her touch more than anything merely outweighed the panic. He knew that if he craved to hold her at all, it was more out of nostalgia and empathy for the woman he'd once loved and not the one that he was seeing now.
Regina wordlessly relented, putting down the antiseptic and the cotton balls. By then he'd already gathered that she was here on his behalf and nonetheless wondered what could precisely be her plan. He couldn't fix himself with a visit. They had a whole failed relationship to prove that some things are just better unfixed.
Ungracefully throwing the liquid onto the cotton ball, he asked, "Why are you here?"
Whatever was going to be her answer, the burning of the antiseptic momentarily distracted him from it. He hissed between clenched teeth, knowing that he should probably be more gentle with himself. More than that, in the shed of his skull knew he was embracing the pain as much as he'd embrace all of the alcohol and meaningless sex. It clouded his brain enough to have him coping with what he was supposed to be copying at each event.
Naturally, Regina pierced this twisted elation, setting his wrist away from the wound with a strength he didn't recall her owning. Quite irritated, she snapped, a flash of that sassy, ruthless girl shadowed behind the cool, numbed out version before him. "Okay, give me that."
"I can do it-"
She grabbed the cotton out of his fingers, not scantily intimidated or forethoughtful about him. That was the thing about their shared, distinctive pain: they were the only ones who understood it, and that's why they caused each other so much harm. Neither of them were scared to do so.
He knew that if he wanted he could have found a way to stop her. During months without seeing her she hadn't changed that much esthetically or in size. The circles behind her eyes weren't nearly as macabre as it'd been in the past, neither was the hollow of her cheeks. She looked a little bit more considerate with her appearance and he absently wondered if that was a reflection of her current state of mind. With the shame of an unstoppable selfishness, he wondered if she'd managed to move on and left him alone in this well of tragedy and incessant pain.
The antiseptic now hardly blurred his concentration, her cleaning lacking the scratching violence of his own. He did his best to ignore the touch of her vacant fingers against the skin of his forearm, latching onto the exchange he felt more comfortable with. "You think you can come back here, kiss my boo hoos and make it all better?" His tone was calm, clinical even, despite his words ringing so skeptical.
It had Regina focusing on her task in return, the tiniest corner of her lips twitched into a hopeless smile. She dropped the dirty cotton ball to be later discarded, grabbing another medication from the box that he'd been too lost on her features to name. He felt her point finger carefully dotting the creamy substance above the cut.
"So now you're not gonna answer me?"
She looked up to glare at him. "You don't want an answer. You want to fight me. I won't be a part of that."
"Oh yeah, because you're so above this, right? You must be living the dream-"
"If I was above this I wouldn't be here." She gritted, trying to sound tolerant as her eyes followed the bandage she was putting on his arm. He could see the reason behind her absorption was her composure finally cracking. Strangely, this childish goal he'd been aiming all along did nothing to placate or amuse him. If anything he felt as if he carried more load in his chest than before.
He eyed the opposite side of the house where so many of their memories remained untouched. If he excluded her clothes and personal items, things were closely the exact way she left them.
Even less inclined to reflect the magnitude of how fucked up that made him, he tried casualty as he inquired, "So how did he find you?"
"John?" She replied, seeming surprised to hear him. Her hands left his skin to clean up the used utensils and put away the aid kit. Their gazes met for a fraction of a second until he nodded and looked down, feeling her weight leaving the cushions of the couch. "He'd been calling my mother for a time, which she failed to mention. No surprise there." Robin gazed up at her, standing there, now backlit by the lamp that seemed to worship wherever spot she went. His eyes almost automatically drank her in, as if she was modeling the kinkiest of lingeries when in truth her loose sweater barely made an effort.
Still so confused with all of this, and feeling way too out of his element, Robin stared down at his hands as he leaned both elbows onto his knees. "I've… I've been away for a while." Regina added, and his eyes watched the shadows of her feet taking her to the chair in front of him again. He decided silence was the best way to stop the thing inside him that desperately wanted to hurt her, however masochist his earlier attempts had proved to be.
"He's been worried about you… You shouldn't blame him for taking care of you." Her voice was laced with carrying, unlike the pity he'd been expecting. He was actually starting to flirt with the idea of accepting this: maybe, just maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be carried for. Maybe that's what he has been subconsciously seeking every time he distanced himself from life by dismissing his own. But then Regina carried on, barely louder than a whisper. "Don't… blame me."
His head jerked up to pointedly stare her down. "Like you blamed me?"
"Let's not do this." She pleaded, misery written all over her features. She remained calm, though. It was like she'd found a new way to cope with her sadness, without staring at a wall for hours, or having sudden fits of blinding rage. Those flashbacks went briskly away as she reiterated. "We can't do this anymore, Robin. I know you. You're not this person. I know you're in there, but it's like I don't recognize you at all. And I know you hurt. Trust me, I'm… I'm the only one who will ever-" Her words suddenly cracked. Seconds of pause helped her to simply clear her throat and curtly nod. "I understand."
The strength of the reference felt like the most truculent punch in his stomach so far. Scant tears at the underside of his eyes burned in contest while he refused to blink them. He knew that more than anything he couldn't bare to look at her. So much grief screamed to get out inside him that he no longer believed there would ever be a way out of this hurricane of sorrow and resentment.
He sensed she was getting closer, but did nothing to prevent it. She was standing there again, silently present, relentlessly offering the console she hadn't been able to give him before. The tears he'd been fighting so hard to conceal for as long as he could remember tracked soundlessly down his cheeks, his haggard breaths the only feat that might hint he was crying. When Regina touched him, her loving hand sneaking its way through his hair as a mute invitation, no will in him put up the battle any longer. The walls of his defense felt pointless once the destruction was coming from within.
She held his forehead to her stomach, feeling the moistness against her clothes yet not daring to break the chilly silence. Her body was still like a rock, ironically more soothing and warmer than anywhere else he could think of. He felt her small fingers caressing him, the simplicity of her comfort overwhelming when all of the help people had forced upon him time and again had felt so shallow. At that moment he felt pain gripping him at its fiercest proportion, but it was oddly experienced with the opportunity of finally letting it all out.
They were quiet for full stretching minutes. When he heard her again, realizing then how his hands had ended gripping both her sides, the quivering quality of her voice drew him to reflexively hold her harder. "We've been through… Something awful… And maybe we'll never understand why… But I don't want anymore horror and pain and... I don't want to feel like this any longer… And I'm not letting you-"
He'd been nodding against her skin to show he was listening. When a wrenching sob consumed her speech altogether, Robin's only instinct was to stand up as well and hold her tiny shaking frame inside his.
It was a mundane act that neither had shared until today. They hadn't once held each other because they were both falling apart, only when one of them had drifted away to that hostile place of abandonment.
Feeling her warm tears wetting the side of his neck, she moaned, strangled with devastating grieving. Never once he'd heard her sound this hopeless, in all of their years. He thought she sounded like the most miserable human on earth. "It's so fucking unfair"
"I know."
She made a grunt against his skin that he couldn't interpret, its meaning lost into the raw honesty of the moment. As their crying subsided, bodies breathing together like one single lung, what persistently remained from all of their agony, and all of their past, was the warmth of their company. For a couple that'd experienced so much loneliness with the other's presence, they were braving an all-encompassing aggregation that held no precedents.
Over her shoulder, the small, shy traces of dawn were starting to break through the dark navy of the sky and further enlighten the living room. Above the wooden shelf, directly in his line of vision, behind scattered books and CD cases, there was a framed picture of a newborn, attached to tubes and wires, his mother's hand leaning longly into the glass of an incubator.
Note: I've been meaning to go from avid fanfic reader to writer, so if you can, please let me know how you feel about this!