A/N: Thank you SweetieR for the prompt!
Jealousy
Robin would hardly describe himself as the jealous type.
Even when he was with Marian—and being with Marian had entailed fending off all sorts of over-confident, hot-blooded suitors from left and right—the feeling simply never registered. He'd cleaned up his own act by then; had traded in petty thievery for a code that he would live by for the rest of his life, to steal only from the rich and give it all to the poor. Marian was the first thing that belonged to him, so to speak, that he hadn't stolen for himself, and she had remained steadfastly his.
In fact, he'd almost sympathized with those young, persistent blokes, could recognize them for what they were because they were what he'd been, until his Marian had come along—cocksure but harmless, simply wanting for someone to set their hearts straight, put them down the right path; and he'd thanked the gods every day that that someone had been her, that she'd seen something in him that she felt worth saving, worth staying for.
When it came down to it, he'd never viewed any of them as a genuine threat.
So, no, jealousy is really not the sort of thing he's had much experience with before.
Until now, that is.
.
.
.
They're on a break. It hadn't been his idea. If it had, then it would've been a bloody stupid one. Instead, Regina had been the one to instigate it, the way she'd reasoned it through making perfect sense in his head no matter how loudly his heart had protested against it.
(This isn't working, she'd told him one night after a particularly heated row had left them both spent and simmering still, all we do is fight. He'd argued right back, Then we'll stop fighting, only to further prove her point, that maybe what they needed was to spend some time apart; maybe instead of fighting all the time, they ought to remember what it was they were even fighting for, and how was one expected to gain perspective when they were so close to the problem that it blinded them?)
(But I love you, he'd said stubbornly; and you know I love you, she'd sighed as her front door had shut off all contact between them. Before she could change her mind, before he could see the tears in her voice finally fall down her cheeks, and since when was love no longer enough?)
The last two weeks have been bloody torture, to say the very least.
First off, Storybrooke is hardly the place to be out and about when you're trying to avoid someone. Not just anyone, but the recently reinstated mayor of said town. And then there's the matter of her son, not to mention the entire extended family that comes along with him, all of whom have developed a rather vested interest in Regina's wellbeing throughout their years of knowing her. Robin suspects she has let on very little to them of what's going on, because all he gets are curious looks, polite nods and pleasant "how do you do"s during run-ins at the market or the local library. (Roland has grown quite fond of hearing Dr. Seuss stories at bedtime—particularly the one about the mischievous feline, Robin explains to Charming one afternoon between the dusty stacks. The prince looks more concerned about the fact that Robin no longer comes over to dinner with Regina and Henry every Friday night, than about speculating on said cat's odd choice of headwear, but Snow gives him a look that dissuades him from prying any further.)
Secondly, Robin's fairly certain he doesn't actually want to avoid Regina. He knows that's what she wants; she'd said as much, that it would be best for them both because staying in each other's lives would be too complicated (too confusing, too impossible). But even though he would really like for nothing more than to grab her by the shoulders and kiss some sense back into her, his desires are entirely selfish, he understands that, he truly does, and he must respect her wishes.
And she's right, of course, because whenever he does see her—she'll be in the middle of something as mundane as driving down Main Street, or thumbing through cartons of eggs at the grocery store so she can make them sunny-side-up with a dash of pepper and soy sauce just the way Robin knows Henry likes them—his heart goes wild. Absolutely wild. Skips a beat here, thumps out an extra one there, performs spectacular flip-flops in his chest. Pumps out so much blood that it blasts through his eardrums, but then not enough, until he's lightheaded and weak at the knees even after he's darted behind a streetlamp or into the next aisle over, removing the temptation to beg an end to his torment.
All in all, he's actually managed to behave himself surprisingly well thus far.
They had come to a mutual agreement on at least one matter, as it pertained to their boys. It hadn't seemed fair to Henry, for instance, to wrench Robin so suddenly and unceremoniously from his life, not when he'd become such a vital part of it over the last several months. So he makes a point to see him regularly, usually at the park or the duck pond, until the brittle cold freezes it over and sends the birds down south for the winter. Roland occasionally joins them too, and it's equal parts encouraging and disheartening to see the two of them bond as brothers, when Robin can't be sure that's what fate will ultimately have in store for them.
Henry, however, is ever the optimist, ever the believer; and he has all the faith (whereas Robin finds his waning) that they will find their way back to each other in the end. He won't say as much, but Robin gets the distinct impression that his mother has been just as miserable—and just as much of a surly terror to be around—as Robin knows he's been throughout this prolonged period of self-inflicted torture.
These are the brighter moments that light up the dark memories he'd otherwise much rather forget during this time without Regina, are the moments that he spends with her son.
The same had gone for Roland. His boy had recently acquired a new set of skills. Skills that enabled him to slip out of their campsite, as he pleased and as sly as a fox, much to the sheepish and belated awareness of both Robin and the Merry Men tasked with Roland duty for the day. ("Like father, like son," Regina had smirked when they discovered this, after first spending the better part of an afternoon in a state of panic when Roland had gone missing—only to turn up later, wandering through the ice cream aisle and sampling each and every flavor, much to Leroy's dismay.) Plus, like father, like son, Roland knows every stone, bush and curb on the way to Regina's house.
So keeping him from seeing her had seemed both cruel as well as quite literally impossible.
But it's not enough, Robin realizes two weeks in—two weeks' worth of sheer anguish and sleepless nights after one too many drinks alone at the bar—because with each passing day it only becomes clearer to him what he wants.
And what he wants is Regina.
If he's to be completely honest, it's what he's wanted since the moment he saved her from that flying monkey and she'd nearly taken his head off for it. Gods but it would be something as absurd as a winged primate that first brought them together, wouldn't it? He tries to imagine what life would've been for him had he not taken that last-minute detour through the forest and heard the shrieks in the air, on that particular day and at that particular angle of the sun overhead. What it would've been without ever having known her scowl, her smile, her kiss, her little gasps of shock as she would come, trembling, in his arms. Her gentle whispers of I love you lulling him to sleep. Her waking him from it with another kiss and the promise of a new day, together, to fall for her all over again.
He tries, but he can't.
It's unfathomable to him, now that he's known it possible to be as happy as he'd been with Regina. And then to be suddenly, simply…not? Without her? And to live with it?
He's not sure how much longer he'll be able to stand this, this whole business of loving her and not having her. Not waking every morning with their limbs entangled, her hair tickling his throat. The touch of her lips on his brow, the smell of a freshly brewed pot of tea stirring him back from sleep after dozing off again while she'd gone about her daily routine. The concept of loving her yet losing her all the same, and of carrying on as though he's not the worse off for it, is about as unthinkable as breathing without oxygen or crossing a desert without water. He doesn't know how such a life can be sustained, and he can't wait long enough to find out.
He'd spent the last two weeks denying it to himself, for her benefit, for her peace of mind, her clarity. But even a man with honor can only be selfless for so long.
So when Charming rings him up that evening, asking if he'd like to stop by The Rabbit Hole later for a drink, all the while dropping hints that Snow White has extended a similar invitation to Regina, Robin has a hard time declining. ("And I have it on good authority," the prince had dropped his voice to conspiracy-level tones, "that Emma has Henry for the night." He may as well have winked into the phone. The man never had been terribly subtle when it came to this sort of thing.)
.
.
.
Stop by for a drink Robin does, "Just the one," he insists to whichever of the dwarves—Dopey, was it?—behind the bar counter, despite Charming's good-natured objections. (Robin reasons that it wouldn't do to attempt winning back the lady of his heart while schnockered good and proper.) Still, when his glass never quite goes empty no matter how many times he knocks it back, he decides it might as well be for the best, to help work his way up to his confession—liquid courage and all that.
But a bottle of scotch between the two of them later, and he's singing an entirely different tune.
Regina is sitting no more than a cluster of four, perhaps five stools down from him, but her back has been turned since he and Charming took their places by the bar. Either she hasn't realized he's here, or she's done a spectacular job of pretending that's the case. He feels intoxicated by her presence alone, even without the scotch warming his belly, whether he's looking her way or not; but perhaps she genuinely hasn't seen him, nor heard him, given that the raucous din of music and chatter and ambient noise has all but drowned out intelligible conversation within a half-meter radius. He can barely even hear Charming as it is now, but nods his understanding when his friend gestures toward the restrooms at the back and then makes his way there.
As the prince vacates his seat, opening up a direct line of vision between Robin and the delicate curve of Regina's back, he can't fight the temptation any longer, can't help but glance her way.
And that's when he sees green.
He trains a murderous eye on him now, the absurdly handsome young fellow with a jaunty elbow perched atop the bar counter. Someone new to town, Ruby had hummed enthusiastically to him and Charming earlier as she sidled by on her way to greet Whale (the doctor had upon arrival proceeded to hover rather awkwardly by the door, tentative and unsure, the smile he'd then given her grateful and relieved).
Someone who, after a bit more inquiry, goes by the name of Merlin.
Merlin. Of course.
Merlin, of wizarding fame. An outright legend in Roland's storybooks, previously confined to flat, colorless words on a page, until now. Merlin, looking a blasted hell of a lot younger than what the damn stories had led Robin to believe, without any evidence of having ever owned a pointy blue hat or robe, wire-framed lenses sliding down the bridge of his nose, or a long, white beard trailing down to his knees. This Merlin, with his artfully mussed up dark brown hair, strong cheekbones, piercing blue eyes and shy yet easy smile, is, in fact, quite the opposite.
(Even Charming couldn't stop raving about the bloke when Ruby had first disclosed his identity to them, eager to beg an introduction once it seemed appropriate to politely interject into his conversation with Regina. "I've heard about him," the prince had noted thoughtfully, "seems like a good guy who had a lot of bad things happen to him. Best friend died, came back to life, that kind of thing." Perhaps this makes Robin an arse for thinking it, but the common elements of magic and a tortured past are more than enough for them to bond over, and the jealousy coloring his vision turns an even more disagreeable shade of green.)
This Merlin character had seemed to take a keen interest in Regina from the moment he first stepped foot inside the bar. And who could blame him? She's looking particularly stunning tonight, with her hair done up in a loose collection of waves that Robin longs to run his fingers through, electric purple dress clinging to her slim shoulders, narrow waist, the delectable curves of her hips that feature prominently in his daydreams. Come to think of it, it had almost appeared as though Merlin had sought her out, as though he'd known she would be here. As though their meeting here had been arranged in advance.
The young man is talking with animated hands, one of them coming to rest, squeeze affectionately at her shoulder, and she lets him. Doesn't shrug him off.
As though they've known each other for much longer than this brief exchange of words and smiles has gone on for.
But that's not the thing that bothers Robin most.
It's the way Merlin says something with a crooked little grin that suddenly has her throwing her head back, a rich, rare laugh emanating from somewhere deep within her belly, full and lovely and something Robin hasn't heard in ages.
And the envy is like venom instilling his heart, pouring out and coursing through his bloodstream to the most paranoid outskirts of his mind, down to the tips of his fingers that tremble and secure a tighter grip around his glass before it slips, spills. Every nerve is infused with a flash of hot, cold, then hot again as wave after wave of dread floods his senses. And with each subsequent laugh, every teasing response she gives that has Merlin's smile widening and dimples deepening, Robin sinks under more, more.
Has he lost her? Was what was meant to be a temporary break for him already an irreparable, broken thing for her?
He just can't remember the last time she'd laughed like that.
As if to add insult to injury, the spots of green dotting his vision clear up in time to catch the knowing smile Snow White gives the pair as she walks over to join Charming on his way back from the lavatory.
"I'm so glad they could reconnect," she's beaming to her husband, unaware of the grimace Robin is making into his tumbler as he wipes it clean of every last drop. The liquor burns pleasantly down his throat, like a fire-cleanse, though it provides little clarity for his mind, and in fact only fuels his anger further.
He's fairly certain he knows who had been the one responsible for orchestrating said reconnection.
Charming must've been aware by association when he'd invited Robin out tonight. And still he'd persevered until Robin's hesitant "no" had become an emphatic "yes" and subsequently landed him in his current predicament.
But Robin's being unfair to them; he knows this. Realizes it deep down, buried somewhere beneath the dredges of his mind, but at its forefront is the sight of Merlin gathering Regina's grey pea coat from the vacant barstool next to her, draping it with an unnecessarily chivalrous flair over her shoulders as she stands, clutch in one hand, the crook of his elbow in her other. Charming seizes the opportunity before it's literally out the door, sauntering the few steps over it takes to capture their collective attention. As Regina's turning round, red lips still curved up in a smile, Robin lurches out of his seat with his own coat in hand, all left feet and knobbly knees while stumbling the way Charming had come, to the men's room.
The stall door slams shut with a thundering clang as he drops his forehead against its cool, graffitied surface. He's doing the right thing, he thinks, not the cowardly one, because it would've been game over the moment their eyes met. Would've taken more than a prince, Snow White and a handful of her dwarves—not to mention some stupid bloody wizard and whomever else happening to stand in the way—to keep standing there and prevent him from making both a scene and a magnificent fool of himself.
He's doing what's right by Regina.
And he knows the Charmings are doing the same; couldn't possibly fault them for it even if he'd only loved her half as much, because then he would've been twice as undeserving (gods but his love for has always left him breathless and lightheaded and weak-kneed, and now all the more devastated and speechless and desperate to hold onto it for as long as he can). They're here for Regina's happiness, not his.
He'd just never considered the possibility that hers and his were not one and the same.
His head makes a dull, repetitive thudding sound as his finger traces the letters R+R onto the gaudy green metal door, mindlessly and over and over, a phantom inscription amongst the crude phrases and dirty visuals carved in there.
Maybe the copious amounts of alcohol are to account for this touch of melancholy, that's turned him morose and dark and broody in a way he hasn't felt in ages. Or perhaps Merlin poses no threat at all but rather serves as a personal scapegoat for all of Robin's own failures—his inability to make Regina happy the way she has every right to be, despite every reason she hasn't been, since she's been with him.
But if Regina can be happy without him, then, well, what honor can he claim to have if he stands in the way of it? The thought of him living a life without her in it is unbearable; the idea of her forever fighting her way out of the darkness, struggling to keep a smile rather than hold one back, is something he simply can't live with, period.
(It also churns his stomach until he's emptying its contents into the toilet basin, but that's neither here nor there except down the pipes and out with the rest of the sewage, along with the last of his borrowed hope and faith, and how will he ever be able to repay Henry now?)
When he returns to the bar, with a lighter stomach but a heavier heart, they've gone.
He retrieves his phone from his coat pocket—one missed call from Charming, followed by a message to say he and Snow had gone home to relieve Belle of Neal-sitting duties—and then squints at the time. Still another half hour left till last call. He deliberates a moment, watching the clock blur in and out on the screen, waiting. Waiting for his head to catch up with his heart.
A minute passes, though it feels like ten.
Regina could be halfway home with Merlin by now, if they'd taken her car. Or halfway up the staircase to her bedroom, given that neither of the two is subject to the typical constraints of human transportation, are they, not if they're in enough of a hurry—
But he can't allow his thoughts to carry him any farther than the foot of the stairs.
To love Regina the way she deserves—because the love she deserves is pure, honest and true—is to be selfless.
So Robin does the hardest thing he's ever done in his life.
He lets her go. And he doesn't follow.
.
.
.
"Exactly how much did he have to drink?" Her voice filters through the semi-conscious slosh between his ears, scolding, vaguely accusatory.
"Not nearly enough, apparently," Robin tries to say on Dopey's behalf. Unless he's starting to hallucinate things. But the words betray him, coming out in indecipherable sounds slurred by a woozy brain and a graceless tongue. He can only imagine the withering side eye she must be giving the bartender dwarf now, the Hey, don't look at me, I just work here shrug she's likely getting in return.
Hands are grabbing at the shoulders of his coat then, gentle but firm, hauling him off his barstool. His head protests, thinks the floor is starting to look uncomfortably close; but just as he's warming up to the idea that perhaps it wouldn't be such a terrible thing to lie down there for a bit, it's suddenly jerked out from under him.
"Let's go home," Regina is saying into his ear as purple smoke engulfs them both. His heart gives a tremendous leap at the word, and then lurches again with the pull and tug of her magic; it grips round his gut and yanks him into a blinding flash of obscurity, but she feels real and solid under the arm she's slung over her shoulders to keep him from pitching forward, and she's the only thing that matters.
.
.
.
He wakes to the smell of tea and the feel of 800-thread count Egyptian cotton at his fingertips. A familiar scent filters through his nose as he turns, buries it into the soft, plush pillow his head is resting on. He inhales deeply.
Regina.
And then he feels her, touch gentle on his forehead, caressing away the sweaty locks of hair matted down there.
His spirits sink down deep into the mattress.
Most of his dreams start out this way.
He pries his eyes open, crusted over with sleep, and she is a vision, the midday light that streams through the window from behind creating a halo around her face, illuminating the soft smile she's giving him now in a brilliant, hazy glow.
His heart positively aches as he gazes blearily up at her, but if this is a dream then he's going with it. He extracts a hand from its cocoon of comforters to still her calming movements at his hairline; fingers interlock, one by one, as he drags her palm down the skin of his cheek, stubble scratching, lips pressing to the inside of her wrist.
"Morning," he rasps finally, feeling warm all over when her smile twitches, widens despite itself.
"You're filthy," she scolds mildly in response. "Let's get you cleaned up."
The bed dips and lifts under her weight as she stands, hand slipping from his, and glides her way over to the double doors leading to the master bath. Her robe slides down low to reveal a generous expanse of pale, creamy back, then lower still, past the natural curve and divot of her spine before pooling with a swish and whisper of silk at her feet. She pauses with a hand on the doorknob, turning to tuck her chin alluringly into her shoulder as she levels him with a dark, half-lidded gaze that leaves his throat scratchy and parched. "Are you coming?"
He swallows thickly. She doesn't wait for his response, disappearing behind the door as all his faculties slowly return to him. He hears the rush of water as the faucet is flipped on, followed by the slow buildup of steam trickling through the crack in the door, as he finally tosses the comforter from his body. He'd been divested of his outer things at some point during the night, wearing nothing but his undershirt and boxer briefs now, but there's a patch of yellow-green crusted to the neckline that he strongly suspects to be what a quick sniff will surely confirm—the leftover mess of his drunken soliloquizing in the bathroom stall the night before.
It's strangely detailed and realistic for something that's very much not, but there's a gloriously naked Regina awaiting him in the shower, so he thinks the dream analysis can be postponed for another, less pressing time. Maybe later. Maybe never.
His heart is hammering all the way up into his esophagus as he sheds the remainder of his clothes and crosses through the doorway, toeing it shut behind him with a gentle click and latch. Her bare silhouette in the frosted glass pane beckons, and he's already half-hard as he steps into the steam, letting out a soft groan as the pleasantly scalding water hits his skin, soothes his scalp and the hangover brewing beneath it.
Dream Regina's back is to him, hair worked up into a fragrant lather, and suddenly he doesn't know what to do with his hands, where he ought to put them, if anywhere, whether it would appear too forward if he drew her in at the waist, or too presumptuous even to touch her at all. A deep yearning tingles through his fingertips, so he clenches them into fists before they get him into trouble.
And he waits. Waits for her, for her to make the first move.
The sudsy bubbles trail tantalizingly down either side of her neck, tracing the delicates lines of her collarbone and collecting into the valley of her breasts as she finally turns to him, hands reaching out to grasp him by the wrists and coax him closer. But they deliberately halt his movements an arm's length away, and her eyes won't quite meet his as she squeezes a fresh dollop of some scented shower product onto a loofah and begins to scrub it gently into his skin.
The urge to take her into his arms and against the wall is intolerably strong, so he forces his eyes to curtain closed over the sight of her, the clean, flawless beauty of her face, the slight bounce in her breasts with each administration of soap to skin. But blocking out one sensation only seems to heighten his perception of all the others. How the heat radiating off her body warms him in a way the water cannot. How her palm coasting along to grip his side while she scrubs her way around to his back has him tensing like a spring, hardening further.
His desire can't have gone unnoticed by her, he thinks with some chagrin, though not enough to delve into mortification territory; and when her bottom brushes up against him more times than can be mere coincidence as she reaches for the shampoo bottle and proceeds to wash the bar stink from his hair, he's fairly certain she's doing it with the intention of driving him to the brink of madness.
And he's more than certain that it's working.
For a brief time the only sounds that occupy the space between them are those of the water lapping and sluicing off their skin; her calm, steady breathing; the quickening of his own every time her hand lingers in one place longer than is strictly necessary. And then there is the sound of silence, of so many things as yet unspoken, so many days' worth of hurt feelings and lost moments to account for, moments that could've been spent making new memories and instead had been lain to irretrievable waste.
Still she doesn't say a word.
Until he can't take it anymore, shatters the quiet as he asks her bluntly, "Is this a dream?"
She doesn't break her stride as she maneuvers his body backward under the showerhead to rinse off the rest of last night's regret and grime, but her voice trembles at its edges as she parries back, "Why, does it feel like a dream?"
"Like the ones I've been having?" Robin huffs out a breath, followed by a word, simply, "Yes."
She pivots him around to face the marbled tile of the shower wall, palms chasing the last of the bubbles down his back, but then they still there. Her forehead comes to rest against his spine, her response nothing more than a whisper into his skin but it pierces through, rides along a jumble of nerves and straight to the core of his heart, "Mine too."
Robin feels a fresh wave of lightheadedness coming on and leans forward into the steady stream of water to quell it, hands braced to the wall, eyes falling shut once more as the temperature dwindles down to tepid. But the real source of heat is coming from every point of contact with her body, her hands, her lips, her—gods, he can feel the stiffened peaks of her breasts brushing lightly over his skin now—"So it's not, then. A dream." His voice is ragged and his resolve to be still is all but falling apart.
"No," she breathes out, "this is real."
This is true.
Her hand reaches past him to grasp the knob, turn it; the water sputters to a trickle, a drip, then nothing.
Every muscle in his body is stretched taut, every nerve just shy of short-circuiting. Every gasp he pulls into his lungs and then forces back out a valiant attempt to breathe.
And then a sudden chill is raising goosebumps in his flesh where the droplets of water have yet to dissolve into the air, as the shower door swings open and Regina steps out and away from him.
His stomach bottoms out, mind filling with static as his gaze falls to the drain, stares blankly at the bathwater circling down.
Down.
Down.
By the time he's recovered enough to look back up at her, she's wrapped in terrycloth, arms folded primly one over the other, fingertips at her elbows. "I'm sorry," she says, shoulders square but with a pink tint to her cheeks, "I couldn't think straight with you being all…" and she gestures up and down his naked form, "that way." He would've smirked had that not been utterly inappropriate for the situation at hand. Had he not been paralyzed by her proximity and equally incapacitated by her departure. Had he been assured that this—all of him—were what she wanted. What she still wanted.
"We should talk," she begins again, "before anything—" but he cuts her off with a small shake of his head.
"Just—" he inhales sharply through his nose, "just let me say this, first." Or rather second, more like, because the first thing he does is grab hold of the nearest towel, slinging it round his hips as he steps onto the mat, dripping puddles and dropping his gaze.
"I miss you," he tells her finally, point-blank, before looking back up to capture her in a heated stare. "I miss you, and I love you. None of that has changed since we've been apart. If anything, I only love you more, which I wouldn't have thought physically possible." He moves one step closer to her then, half-expecting her to take one back, but she doesn't. Her eyes are deep as oceans, deep enough to drown in, and just as bafflingly vast and unreadable. "And I'm—I'm in constant agony without you there."
He feels his Adam's apple bob up and down with the dry swallow he takes before continuing, "I know you were tired of arguing all the time. And, quite honestly, I can't even remember what we bloody fought about for half of it." Always something small and trivial that would only escalate because they'd grown used to letting it. "And I'm tired too, Regina. I'm tired of being without you." Her lips part to speak but he's not sure he'll be able to finish saying what he needs to if he lets her, so he barrels on, "I think, though, for your sake, that I can learn to live with it. With not being you. As long as I know you're happy, and better off for it."
She gives a near-imperceptible shake of her head as he closes the remaining distance in two strides, ignoring the cold of the tile beneath his feet as he gathers her face between his hands.
He thinks of the laugh Merlin had teased out of her so easily the night before, the warm gazes and shared smiles. He thinks of the exhaustion that would build with each subsequent fight. The inevitable hurt that would drag down the hope brought on with each new morning after they'd broken their promise not to go to bed angry, yet again. He thinks of how he would rather fight a thousands fights and lose them all, just to wake with her in his arms one more time, because how could he lose as long as he had her? But how could he win at the expense of her laugh, her smile?
He thinks of all this as he presses his last kiss to his favorite spot just above her brow and tells her, voice cracking, heart breaking, "Your happiness means everything to me."
Her eyes are wet but her cheeks are dry as she stares wordlessly at him, but then her gaze drops to his mouth, perhaps out of habit, perhaps against her will, and they're leaning into each other, drawn together, her pull magnetic and growing stronger with each passing second that he attempts to resist it. The pulse in his neck hammers and bounds when his lips touch hers, the barest whisper of contact.
His desire is painful to the point of excruciating as he forces himself to break off and turn aside.
"I can't—" he chokes out, and his hands are grasping at her shoulders now, pushing her gently back because it's easier than pulling away. "Regina, I can't do this. Whatever this is—I can't. I'm sorry."
She's taught him a thing or two in the past about being the one to strong-arm the other into walking away. Back in the Enchanted Forest. In her vault. At the town line. And it is not his first time, being the one who does the walking.
But it will be the last.
He'd once chosen honor over her.
Now, he will follow his precious code once more, and choose her happiness over his own.
Each step that takes him farther from her is a direct blow to his heart. A stab to his lungs. A kick to the gut.
Until her voice, ripped and torn apart by grief, says his name like a prayer, a promise, "Robin," then, the words that shatter his resolve, "Come home."
He shudders to a halt, one foot pressed to the carpet, the other pivoting heel to tile, about to round the corner and retrieve his clothes that reek of smoke, booze and sorrow.
"Come home," she says again, and it's the way she utters the word "home" that does it, has him about-facing so fast that his head is spinning as he overtakes her, all but heaves and crushes her into his arms.
Because home is what she is to him. Because without her, he's done nothing but drift and wander, a vagrant of the heart.
Because home is where they belong.
He'd just needed to be sure that was one thing they could finally agree on.
He kisses her now with all the pent-up longing of two weeks and then some, all the fire and fervor that ought to have strengthened their love for one another instead of undermining it, wasted on spats and verbal sparring sessions. He kisses her as though it were the last but with a promise of many, many more to come.
Her hands hover distractedly at his elbows before regaining a sense of purpose, gripping and then traveling, palm to damp, bare skin up his arms, coasting across his back before settling against the nape of his neck, fingertips to hairline. Her mouth opens to his, warm and inviting, absorbing his heated groan and answering with a shudder of her own. His hands are everywhere all at once, can't get enough of the way she shivers when he caresses up and down her spine, the feel of her slim waist as it curves sinfully out into those full, luscious hips he has pressed against his now. Just as he'd imagined every night he'd spent without her, yet all the more dreamlike now that it's finally real.
But his hands are also impatient and overeager, greedy and seeking more still, and there's a towel is their way. He tries to take his time, cradles her jawline next, traveling down her neck to splay his fingers there (smiling against her mouth when she shivers at the shift in contact), then lower still until the corner of the terrycloth tucked in between her breasts falls into his grasp.
He rips it clean off her body and tosses it aside.
His mouth pulls away from her kiss so he can rake up and down her naked form, a light sheen of steam and sweat clinging to her skin, and she is radiant, his eyes drinking up the sight of her as though they'd been starved without it.
He tries to speak but the words dry up mid-throat and all he can manage is an appreciative moan as he hauls her back into his arms, hands roaming over her back and down to cup her bottom, lifting her to the tips of her toes. Her breasts mold to his bare chest, and he resolves to grant them his full attention later, but first, he can't get enough of that full bottom lip, already swollen from his rough, hungry kisses, devouring every sigh and eliciting more with a drag and a swipe of his tongue against hers.
His erection is throbbing against her belly, tenting his towel as she pulls back to give him a breathless smile.
It's that smile of hers that will be his ultimate undoing.
"Take me," she says, and he's mesmerized by the heavy rise and fall of her chest with each hitch in the words that has his cock twitching and pulsing more, and then she's clarifying, with a wicked glint in her eye and playful arch of her eyebrow, "into the bedroom."
His answering smiles curves into a smirk as he backs her up into the sink behind her, tilting his chin in a show of thoughtful consideration. Hips grind into hers while he deliberates, and she lets an involuntary "oh" fall from her lips, which he captures with his own, kissing her fully and taking his time about it, before finally murmuring into the corner of her mouth, "As you wish."
She's glowing, positively luminous, and a giddy little laugh slips out when he grabs round her bottom and lifts her up into the air, throwing her over one shoulder.
It's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard.
His towel is just barely slung on at the waist by the time his knees come into contact with the foot of her bed, sliding further past his hipbone as he sets her gently down onto the wooden frame.
And then it's joined the pile of his clothes on the floor with a flick of her wrist, releasing his cock, rigid and erect, and the sight of her gaze going half-lidded as she scoots forward until she's close enough for him to feel the warm air she exhales—
Gods.
"Stay still," she commands him. As if he even had a choice, because he's overcome with a wave of pleasure that paralyzes him to the spot as she takes him into her mouth, tongue swirling over the tip, licking away the pearl of moisture that's gathered there, then ascending in slow, luxurious circles, taking him near to the hilt. The feel of him sealed in by the moisture of her mouth, her throat, the tantalizing friction of her tongue to his skin, has him releasing a sound strangled by desire, too much of it too soon, and he's rasping out, "No, wait—" when she takes him in deeper.
Her mouth leaves him with a small pop, eyes rising to meet his, and the look she gives him is amused and knowing and triumphant. He's surging forward then, tongue tangling with hers in an open-mouthed kiss, hands gripping her hips to shift her further onto the bed, bending forward at the waist to press her back into the mattress with his chest. The comforter pillows up like a cloud around her body, and he pulls away to admire the view before finally turning his attention to her breasts, nipples hardened into cold little pebbles that he warms with the inside of his mouth, licking, sucking and biting down in turn. Palms cup and knead, slow lazy motions that spasm slightly with every little sigh she releases.
He jerks into her when she moves a leg over his bottom and digs into him, lifting her hips off the bed to rub her center against the tip of his cock. He relinquishes the nipple he's been rolling and twisting between his fingers, in a way that had her arching and writhing beneath him, and drags his hand down her stomach, lower, until he reaches the juncture of her thighs. He catches his lower lip with his teeth to bite back a groan as he samples her with one finger, then two, finding her slick and ready, coating them with her wetness. His thumb seeks out the bundle of nerves at her core, hard and tense and pulsing, quivering along with the rest of her body as he presses down, rubs there.
She fists into his hair and tugs him to her for a heady kiss, messy and angled sideways and all-consuming, nose to her cheek, breathless pant intermingling with her rapturous gasp when he twists at her clit just so. Some of the tension at his scalp loosens when her hand reaches down to grasp him, firm, sliding from tip to hilt and back, as she positions him over her center. Looks up at him as he breaks their kiss, shuddering above her, muscles all tense with restrained desire, and she gives him one simple, heart-stopping smile.
He pushes slowly into her, watching through a heavy, unfocused gaze the way her eyes squeeze shut and her mouth forms a silent o of pleasure. He won't last long, he thinks deliriously as he starts moving within her, pulling nearly out to the tip so he can revel in the friction of entering her again, feel her clenching, tightening around him as he does. His lips drop back down to hers, dragging eagerly, grunting into her open mouth when her nails dig into his back and her heel into his hip, urging him to quicken the pace of his thrusts.
His hand palms the back of her thigh, traveling up to rest in the crook of her knee as he bends her there and she complies, changing the angle of his hips as they plunge himself in and out of her. Deepening it, intensifying the shocks of bliss quaking through every lit nerve of his body, slick with sweat and sliding over her bare breasts and belly. Heightening the guttural sounds reverberating from somewhere deep in his throat, adding to the creak of the bed beneath their increasingly feverish movements. Hip to hip, skin to skin, then his mouth over her breast, her throat, stealing one last kiss from her before the ecstasy electrifies his senses.
"Regina," he gasps out, "I—"
"I know," is her answer, all husky and stirring that goes sharp and breathless at the end when he reaches for her clit once more, with just enough pressure, yes, Robin, just—just like that—Robin—I'm—I—oh—
He slips over the edge, and it's a long and glorious fall back down to earth, with her wrapped and trembling, crying out and coming to pieces in his arms.
.
.
.
The sun has begun to set on the day. It sends a hazy collage of red and orange light through the cracks in the curtains, which had been drawn over the bedroom window sometime between the bed and the floor—or was it against the wall, or when he had taken her from behind—in case they had a voyeur for a next-door neighbor. They'd eventually relocated back to the bed, where they lie now, spent and sated with loose and tingly limbs all entangled in the sheets.
Robin's playing with the ends of her hair, tickling her skin with it until she swats him lazily away, burrowing further into the warmth of his body. "So," he hedges, shifting his arm where her head has pillowed there into a more comfortable position as he prepares himself for a conversation sure to be very uncomfortable, "this…Merlin. He's—"
"An old friend," Regina yawns, lifting a leg to wrap over his, then corrects sleepily, "well. He was the enemy of my enemy, so I guess that made him more of a friend than not. We both had a problem with the witch Morgana once." A pause. "She's not a problem anymore." Robin thinks it best not to ask her to clarify that point any further.
He's wondering how best to phrase his next question when she answers it for him. "He needed advice on what to do about a man in his life." He feels her smile into his skin. "One can sympathize."
Robin is floored. "He—ah," is all he can manage to say for several sheepish moments. "I see."
"He thought he'd lost the one he loved because of something he had no control over." Her fingers trail their way across his chest, come to rest when they wrap around his side. "I thought I'd lost you because I was scared of losing control. He told me I was being stubborn. That I was only trying to make you hate me now, to take that choice away from you, so you wouldn't learn to hate me on your own later."
"You know I would never," he begins, but she does, she does know that, and she tells him as much.
"I'm sorry," she whispers then, "I shouldn't have given up, or expected you to. Or let you think I could ever be happy without you. I—" but he shushes the remainder of her apology with an I know followed by a kiss, and she lets him.
They're both nodding off again when she seems to be reminded of something, and he notes with a bleary half-eye open and full of trepidation that a wicked little grin is teasing at her lips now. She turns into him, murmuring into his throat, "By the way," before pressing a kiss there, filled with tongue and a promise of many, many more to come, and suddenly he's not so sleepy anymore either, desire dragging him back out of his half-stupor and setting his nerves ablaze. "I know green's your color, but that particular shade was not doing you any favors."
.
.
.
Things aren't perfect after that. He'd be fooling himself if he thought they were. Every time Henry declares that the love story between his mom and Robin is a fairytale in its own right ("Look," he'd say, heaving his storybook open to a particular page, freshly illustrated by unknown hands, "here's proof"), Robin has to remind the boy that unlike fairytales, their story does not simply stop at the end of a chapter. That in order to achieve their happily ever after, they have to live first, to work toward that ending so they're deserving of it when it comes.
And live they do. When a bit of old tension resurfaces, tempers simmer on high and words grow clipped at the edges, Robin recalls the utter devastation that a mere two weeks apart had inflicted upon his heart. That no number of heated exchanges or instances of wounded pride could ever justify. So he re-channels his anger, sometimes into kissing away the next wave of outrage on the tip of her tongue. Other times by simply walking away to cool himself down (but he always returns to her, and he would never have left to begin with without giving her the assurance that he would). And then on occasion it will dissipate to nothing at the mere sight of her smile, even a hint of one, because he can't bear the thought of never seeing it again.
It takes a little bit of work, and he suspects it may always, but it's a rare occurrence now when they go to bed angry with one another; even then, he'll wake with her turned back round to face him, taking up half his side of the bed, soft and warm in all the right places and humming in her sleep when his arms tighten their embrace.
On those days, he's the one to brew the tea and stir her gently from her dreams, with a hand twirling a lock of hair away so he can press a kiss to the hollow of her neck.
It's not a perfect system by any means. But it doesn't make their love any less true.
And, as it turns out, he's not he only one prone to the occasional fit of jealousy.
"I think Merlin was flirting with you," she tells him bluntly one night. It's Emma's turn to have Henry, Marian's to have Roland. Said wizard has just departed with a grateful nod of thanks for a home-cooked meal and such pleasant company, and they finally have the house—and the bathtub—all to themselves.
"Oh?" Robin comments mildly, carefully rubbing knots out of Regina's shoulders and back. "We were just talking. I had no idea, all the adventures he and Arthur had gotten up to back in the day. The better majority of them don't get so much as a mention in Roland's storybooks."
"You two monopolized the entire conversation," she grumbles, sinking down deeper into the water until it laps at her lower lip so he can pretend he hasn't noticed the way it's drawn down into a spectacular pout. "And he offered to show you his magic sometime!" She says it like it's code for something, and he is deeply amused by her borderline petulant tone of voice.
"Wait a minute," he teases, hands stilling on her skin. "Are you—jealous?"
"Jealous?" She whips her head around to give him an idea of how offended she is by the very thought of it. "That's completely ridiculous."
Robin hums his lack of desire to comment as his fingers knead their way up her neck and weave through her hair.
"Well," he says finally, when she's remained sullen and silent, "even if he was flirting, just a little, at least it demonstrates you both have good taste."
She flicks soap water into his eye in response and he makes a grab for her waist when she tries to wriggle away, leaving the tile floor drenched and their bellies tight with the hysterical laughter that ensues.
"I still think you're jealous," he tells her fondly, and she promptly retaliates by submerging his head under the water.
"Not in the slightest," she sniffs as he resurfaces, sputtering and poised for payback.
They agree to disagree on most things after that.
A/N: In case anyone was wondering (got a question about it on tumblr), that is Merlin of BBC fame. Colin Morgan is about 30 now, so I imagined him aged a few years beyond that. Still as lovely as ever :)