A/N: This is the first installment to the Outlaw Queen Alphabet: Angst Series that I have been working on. The updates might not be frequent, and it might not be in the order that the letters go (which will grate on my nerves endlessly). I hope you like it anyway!
The thick, black smoke that surrounded the station was an indication that the train had made its hasty departure. It was an indication that he missed it; again. Why couldn't he have just ridden a plane? It was the same thing, anyway. He would get from Paris to London and in a better, faster way too. Why did he have to go bloody traditional?
"Bloody hell," he muttered as he made his way through the horde of people on his way. He pushed his way through the crowd earning him some cold stares and glares. But he could care less. He was already late.
It was cold. A cold morning which he wished was spent in bed, languidly if he must. And the nicotine stick he puffed wasn't much of a help either. He ran his fingers through his hair. He was on his third stick when the whistle blew again. An indication that the train had arrived; again.
"Thank heavens," he said under his breath as his cigarette was thrown to the ground and stomped by the Italian leather shoes donned by his feet.
People had quickly gathered round the train, pushing him and hitting him in every direction. He was annoyed. Couldn't this people wait for a bloody second before they start piling by the door? It would be faster that way, wouldn't it?
But no, people were more intent on getting on the train faster than in order, which in his opinion would make it faster. Maybe it was better if they broke some limbs before they went to work?
He rolled his eyes. The way people functioned these days was just plain absurd. He stood back as he waited for the wad of people to thin out so he can get in himself.
He quickly scanned the expanse of the train for a thinner crowd by the door. No such luck. His head went every direction, his eyes were keen.
The day was just going wrong. Just plain wrong.
But then he spotted her. He spotted her by the opposite end of the train; arms across her chest, her lips pursed. Who would have thought?
"Regina?" he whispered breathlessly.
The tiny brunette had been waiting for the line to thin out, like he did. Who knew the day that turned out so bad could turn out so good?
Who knew that by missing the first train, he'll meet the woman he had not seen for almost five years?
Who knew? Indeed.
He wasn't sure how or when it had happened, but he suddenly found himself a few more steps behind her. His feet had a mind of its own, it seemed. He was merely an inch form her now. He held out his hand to tap her shoulder.
But the line moved. She wasn't with his reach anymore; again.
He sighed and let out a string of curse words. Like a bubble, she vanished. Why couldn't he have just called her name, anyway?
What a flaming idiot he was.
He scrambled to his feet, pushing his way to her. He needed to catch her. He needed to have a talk with her. He needed to see her, to hear her voice, to see her smile and to touch her again. He needed her.
And he knew it was wrong. It was wrong in all sorts of ways. But even if he did know that, it all felt right to him.
Upon stepping on the train, he hurriedly searched for an empty compartment. He was going to search for her later. Knowing that she was on the same train as he was, was enough for the moment.
All the compartments were with tenants, if they weren't already full. He was having a rotten luck. What a day it was. But things did happen for a reason, he believed. And he knew the reason. He believed his own reason.
He sighed. He wasn't just going to find a compartment for himself. And if luck would continue to be barmy, he may wound up having to share a compartment with a non-stop yapping youngling or a bloody boring old soul.
He felt pathetic. And he was giving up, slowly. He chanted a small chorus of "Please let there be a God," in his head like a mantra. He had a purpose to fulfil but if he couldn't find one bloody compartment, what was he to do now?
The train was steadily moving now. He dragged his carry-on as he peered to every door. His feet made loud noises that disturbed the serenity.
"This will be the last room. If there's a horde of people or an old or yapping fool inside this thing, I swear I will camp out in here," he groused only to himself.
As he held his breath, he opened the door slowly.
Nothing; it was empty.
He breathed a sigh of relief. At last, he had found a room. He threw his bag carelessly to the chair by the right and left the compartment. He looked by the door and tried to remember the number.
"23B," he said aloud. He had to bear that in mind. And with that, he went on his search for her. For the woman who had left him five years ago. He could still remember it vividly. He replayed it in his head like a movie, clear and detailed. He couldn't forget it if he tried. He couldn't forget her if he tried.
It was a good four months back then that his father had died. He had fallen into depression for he was eaten up by guilt. He had not been able to be by his father's side when his father had died and that troubled him deeply.
He never really had the best relationship with his father, to be quite honest. But even so, the pain of being far away when his father passed was unbearable. She was there by his side back then. She faithfully tried to help him get over it. She had lent him her shoulder when he cried. She listened to his sentiments. She whispered words of condolences and encouragement in his ears. She was there by his side like they promised each other.
But he wasn't the one to be grateful. Instead of thanking her, he pushed her away. He lashed out on her. He drank himself to stupor every night. And he would lie to her about work when all he ever did was drink and go around, sleeping with one woman to the next. He broke his promise to her. His promise to never hurt her and to love her as she did him. He hurt her deeply. He took for granted everything they had shared for a moment of depression that he could have fought. A depression they could have fought together.
He was stupid and insatiable. He didn't see that what he had right in front of his eyes was his everything. He didn't see it, until she left him; cold and alone in their empty bed. When he did realize it however, he tried getting her back. But he hurt really deeply that she just wouldn't get back with him. Not anymore. Not in his state, all disheveled and lost.
So he turned his life around, once again. He got his job back that he just lost. He reinvented himself. He changed for her. He threw all his bad habits for her. And it had been hard. One hell of a torture more likely but it was worth it. It was all worth it. It took him five years but he wouldn't have changed a thing because he did it for her. And everything he would do just for her.
He hadn't noticed that he had found the other side of the train because he was busy remembering her. There was just one last door he had to open before he came back down to his own compartment. He opened the last door but he was disappointed. She wasn't anywhere to be found. Maybe that wasn't her? Maybe his mind played tricks on him because he missed her so much? Probably.
He sighed. Maybe it was time to let go. Maybe it was time to heal. Maybe it was time to forget.
Maybe, it was.
He opened the door of his compartment tiredly. He just wanted to rest. He sat by the window and watched the view as the train passed by them. It was beautiful, the scene before him. And it was great to see a change of scenery, actually. He only saw buildings in Central London. It was nice to see greenery for a change. Besides, it made him calm. Maybe that's why she always preferred to take trains rather than plane when travelling to Paris, he mused as he was reminded of her once again.
And maybe, that's why he's taken the train and not the plane albeit the comfort it offered. Because she always took the train, he had hoped he would see her there. Like fate intervened on them to meet again.
But it wasn't likely, was it?
He sighed again. All this quiet, trying not to think of her and trying to think of her at the same time was driving him insane.
He picked up the book across him. Jane Eyre, her favourite. He flipped the page and began reading eagerly. He was so intent in the book that he hadn't heard the door open as another presence was made known to the room. That was until he heard that person clear its throat.
"I'm sorry. I hope you don't mind the sharing of compartment," he said dully as he hadn't torn his eyes from the book.
He heard the leather crunch as that person sat across him.
"And I hope you don't mind that I borrowed your book. It was just my wife's favour-," he trailed as his eyes met the other person's.
When his eyes met hers.
She didn't speak as shock registered in her face. He was shocked too. He had all the intentions of finding her but he had not intended to actually sit with her on that bloody tiny compartment: alone.
He prayed for them to meet again, yes. But not this way.
His throat went dry as his heart beat loud and rhythmically in his chest. There was a deafening silence and thick tension enveloped the air.
What the hell was he to do now?
He opened his mouth to speak and so did she, but all that came out was a loud and sharp intake of breath.
He blinked, once, twice then thrice before he cleared his throat. "Regina?" he finally was able to say.