A/N: Hello! Long time, no update! My apologies! Firstly, I want to thank anyone and everyone who read, favorited, followed, and, especially, reviewed Chapter 1. You honestly have no idea what it means to me. I am a painfully self-conscious fangirl who was TERRIFIED to post any of my writing, so to have y'all embrace it and be so kind has been a huge blessing and, as cheesy as it sounds, has truly made my day over and over again. I'm really grateful and I hope y'all continue to like this story! I have really loved writing it so far.
Special shout out to one of my current favorite fanfic writers Mademoiselle Arel ! I cannot believe you read my crappy writing (compared to yours!) let alone reviewed! I appreciate it so much! And I promise to try and work more on my tenses, it's always been my kryptonite when it comes to my writing.
That goes for everyone, too. I really apologize for any mistakes in my writing. I try the best I can with this un-beta'd mess I call my fanfic. LOL. I just hope y'all can manage to overlook any small ones and hope I improve the more I post.
Also, each chapter will flip back and forth between Robin and Regina, so, without further ado, let me introduce you to If You Love Me Right's Robin...
Robin Locksley hadn't planned on becoming an exotic dancer, a stripper.
That hadn't exactly been the plan when he moved to the United States, from Northeast London, to attend Stanford University, a decade ago. No, what he intended to do was graduate Stanford, with his Bachelor's degree in Environmental Systems, then find a job that sustained an American lifestyle, while also saving the Earth's forests and ecosystems.
He had, indeed, graduated from Stanford, with that very degree, but he also left the university with something, he thought, was more valuable- a wife.
It wasn't a fairytale romance by any means (That should've been the first clue, Robin, now, thinks bitterly), it wasn't love at first sight or a stroke of destiny. It certainly was not what he had pictured when he had thought about falling in love, as a simple boy in Ilford, listening to his parents, childhood sweethearts, talk about how they met in kindergarten and "that was that."
Robin had met his future wife, Marian, at a fraternity party during his first year in California. Robin hadn't been a "frat" kind of a guy, nor a big partier. He had always preferred the quiet company of nature, of sitting against the bark of a tall tree while studying ways to preserve such natural beauty, but his roommate, Alan, had convinced him that he was in need of some fun and what 19-year-old would turn down the opportunity of free, accessible booze?
He had entered the house, immediately put off by the smoke assaulting his lungs, the rank mixture of smells attacking his nose, and the blaring, wall-shaking music deafening his ears. But he had followed Alan, anyways, and they made their way to the keg outside, past his fellow students grinding on the make-shift dance floor to Usher's "Yeah".
He never got his beer, though.
Instead, he ended up discovering an absolutely smashed young woman, yelling and screeching, as a man held her wrists, yanking her in the direction he had been wanting to walk in. The girl was obviously drunk, very, very drunk, but she was loudly resisting the man's plans and Robin had had no intention of allowing an assault to occur if he could stop it.
He had managed to get the man to release his forceful grasp on the woman, who had slurred out her name, but not without engaging in a short fisticuffs with the brute, ending with the man on the ground, his nose bloodied, Robin's knuckles throbbing, and Marian vomitting into a planter. He had stumbled over to her, just in time to catch her as she passed out, unconscious. He'd managed to find one of her friends, thankfully sober, who led him, as he carried her across campus to her dorm. Depositing her into her bed, and in the care of her friend, he, then, had left with no intention of seeing her again.
Intentions never quite work out for Robin.
Marian had tracked him down, to thank him for his assistance that night and they struck up a friendship. She was attractive, a pretty girl when her caramel skin wasn't dewy with sweat, her raven, curly hair wasn't frizzy from the Silicon Valley's heat, and her soft, pink lips weren't covered in her stomach's regurgitations. Attractive, and funny, and passionate, she was only in school to appease her wealthy parents, a prominant plastic surgeon and well-established real estate broker, so they wouldn't monetarily cut her off for pursuing her dream of being an actress, working in entertainment.
They were very different, Robin and Marian, from two completely different upbringings with two utterly seperate life goals, yet they managed to fall in love and, in their senior year, shortly before graduation, they married in a small ceremony- one Marian's folks didn't approve of, but she had chosen him over her trust fund and he had found that romantic.
What a fool.
It was fine, for the first few years that is. After receiving their degrees, they relocated to Chicago for a job Robin had managed to retain with a respectable orginazation. Marian had gotten a job managing a local hotel chain, the best a basic business degree could procure at the time, and they had purchased a small three bedroom home after they learned they were unexpectedly expecting a child.
Roland was born on October 26, 2010, a bundle weighing 7 pounds, 8 ounces, wrapped in a blue blanket, changing Robin's life forever.
He had thought everything was perfect, aside from a few late nights at work and a bout of croup Roland had contracted as an infant. He loved his wife, adored his son, was content with his career, it was a great life.
Until Marian left.
Robin wasn't blind, nor daft. He had known Marian hadn't been as comfortable in their life as he had been, but he never imagined that one day, after he dragged himself home, desperate for a shower and dreaming of singing a lullaby to send a one-year-old Roland to his own dreams, that she would be waiting with their luggage- filled with her luggage.
She said she met a man, one from New York, a few weeks ago, that she was in love with him. She had said, "I want to be on Broadway, not be behind a desk", and, "Robin, we both have known we have an expiration date." She didn't mention Roland, had seemed to forget about his existence in favor of this New York stranger.
Robin had let her go because he wasn't like that man he had saved her from at that freshman party years ago, he wouldn't force her to stay with him. She had kissed him on the cheek, muttering a pitiful "Goodbye", then left. Left him alone with tears burning his eyes and an infant upstairs crying from the sound of the door that slammed shut behind her.
Robin never heard from Marian again, except when he found she had emptied their joint bank account and when she sent him divorce papers. Then, that was that.
He had become an ex-husband and single father, in one fell swoop. He had then, a few months later, added "unemployed" to his list of new titles, when his company had laid him off. He was desperate. He had no longer had savings to fall back on, thanks to his lovely "wife", but he had a son to feed and nourish and protect and Robin would be damned if any setbacks for him would set back Roland.
So he found a quick, easy day job in construction. He had always been good with his hands, his father had been an amatuer carpenter when Robin was young, and it may not have been a "world saving" career, but it did save him from having his electricity cut off and that was enough.
Except, it hadn't been enough, not truly. Robin was still short on money, barely making the house payments every month and the expense of a babysitter every day was adding up. So his cousin, Will, and his wife, Anastasia, had moved across the pond, occupying the third bedroom of the his house, chipping in with such as the groceries and the water bill, as well as Ana babysitting Roland, for free, freeing up yet another expense.
Will had been looking for a job, one that would make enough money for a married, basic high school graduate at the ripe age of 23, when he stumbled across an old classmate, Cyrus, who was working under the name "The Genie" at a place called "Gold's Body Shoppe"- a strip club.
"Cy says they pay ya right good, Robin," Will had enthused, "Up'ta grand a week!"
"So you're going to be a stripper now?" Robin had chuckled, utterly amused.
Will had shaken his head in earnest, "Not me, mate- you."
He had told Robin that his cousin had the right body type for the job, that he was the one who desperately needed the extra cash, and, without Marian, he had no one to answer to about taking his clothes off for money.
It had been an absurd idea, Robin had told Will as much, but as he went to bed that night, he couldn't deny the tempting dollar signs rolling around in his head.
So he went to the Body Shoppe, met with the owners, with some of the fellows who danced there, and, suddenly, it had no longer been a ridiculous notion, it was a job.
A side job, just the weekend evenings, so he could spend Saturdays and Sundays with his son then sneak off to work when he was in bed, oblivious to the fact that his father took his clothes off for money. But Robin couldn't be ashamed when two night's worth of work equaled one month of the mortage, yet allowed him to keep a respectable, week-day job and still be a hands-on dadd.
Robin quite liked working at the Shoppe, in fact. The choreography was easy to memorize, he had become good mates with many of his fellow dancers, and the owners were diligent about the well-beings of their establishment, employees, and customers.
The customers had never been a problem, either. The women and men who attended were generally respectful (short of the occasional ass-grab), tipped well, and left laughing and smiling and giddy from the show he and his "coworkers" had put on (Ironic how Marian left him for entertainment and he was now the one on the stage, Robin often has mused), which, strangely, made Robin appreciative that he could bring a small amount of pleasure to people.
He, on the other hand, didn't derive pleasure from the people in the audience, not like a few of the others did. It wasn't as if the Shoppe didn't house a beautiful clientel. Many of the women who came to the shows were pretty, but dating, especially a customer, was never part of Robin's short-term plan.
He needs to stop making plans.
Tonight, the announcer's introduction begins, the lights turn on, and Robin's eyes befall upon the most gorgeous woman he has ever seen. She is sitting near the front, at a table full of women who are a helluva lot more enthusiastic than she is, a bored scowl resting on her plump, cherry-painted lips, one hand of long, slender fingers playing with the ebony, silklike hair that falls just past her shoulders, drawing Robin's stare to her (even sitting!) curvy, toned body, covered by a skin-tight red frock, except for her muscular legs, one crossing the other, the olive-hued skin seemingly shimmering under the cast off spotlight.
She looks up.
Oh, god.
Robin Locksley is in trouble.
She glances at the stage, her other hand falling from it's place on her nose (Can a nose be sexy, Robin asks himself, because she surely as the most beautifully constructed nose he's ever seen), and her eyes immediately discover his- deep, milk chocolate orbs, behind thick, dark lashes, that Robin swears are seeing straight into his soul.
It's not that she's simply physically stunning (Stunning seems to be the only appropriate word to descibe her outer beauty that has stunned him into a gawking bafoon, he observes), it's as if he's tethered to her. He feels a pull, an undeniable urge to go to her and ask her why she seems so unhappy amongst a group of fun-having people, why those stunning, brown eyes are darker than they should be, even under the dimmed audience lighting, and why, staring at him, she appears to have just seen a ghost- lips parted, eyes wide, body fidgeting with apprehension, as opposed to the typical arousal.
He mainly wants to ask her if she feels this thing, this connection, to him, too.
Too late, Robin realizes that this mystery woman has distracted him enough for him to miss his cue and the beginning of his choreography. So much for his valued reputation as the one dancer to never miss his mark, he scoffs at himself, ashamed.
But, with his eyes still locked in a maze of enamoring brown, he doesn't find the sense of shame lasting long.
He wants her. Plain and simple. Wants her body, and her mind, and her soul, and, my God, he hasn't even spoken to this woman.
A loud (and at this particular moment, annoying) scream hails from the audience and he remembers he is supposed to be working, putting on a show.
Painfully, he tears his gaze away from hers, this woman in red, and begins to rotate his hips, rythmically moving to the music as he slowly peels off the top half of his costume.
But, instead of revelling in the cheers around him, his mind is wandering to her again.
And suddenly the distance, the time spent not looking at her, has gotten too great and his heart is pounding and his stomach is churning, he needs to look at her again, be nearer to her.
Screw the routine.
He descends the stage and he can only imagine the hell he'll have to pay from Walter , the head of lighting who has the dancer's directions studied to a tee to land the perfect spotlight, but he doesn't care.
The only thing Robin cares about is why this woman, this maddeningly beautiful woman, has seemed to captivate him in a way that no one ever has before, not even his ex-wife.
It's ridiculous, really.
The way he is instantly soothed as her stare matches his once again, how this person he has never seen before two minutes ago, has never said a word to, has him feeling like the only person on the face of the planet- with her.
He smiles to himself, he must be delusional. Who has a connection with someone they have never met? But he feels like he has, feels like he knows her.
He's in front of her before he can remember walking and she is peering up at him, confused, shy, intimidated. Absurd.
How this goddess, who he would bow before as if she were royalty and not a customer, could be intimidated in this situation is absurd, unfathomable.
Robin tentatively reaches his hand out, hopng, oh so hoping, that she will take the cue, want to take it, and slip her hand into his own. He wants her to touch him, to enjoy, but he wants it on her terms. Wants her apprehension cast aside and the hint of fear (Whoever, man, woman, or beast is responsible for putting it there shall surely be damned to Hell, he curses) behind those big, brown orbs to dissipate.
Her friends are cheering and hollering, one of the blondes snapping a series of photos with her iPhone, he can tell by the flash, but her attention is still his and his is still hers. The rest of the world is nonexistant in this connection- just them.
Then her hand is touching his, sliding into his grasp, almost absentmindingly, as if she is running on instinct and he is so grateful. Grateful that she is trusting him with her touch and that, seemingly, she feels this pull to him, as he does to her.
Robin gives her a reassuring squeeze and a comforting smile, because he can sense that this is new to her, difficult for her, this trust and this touch, and he wants nothing more than to show her it was not a mistake.
Well, that and to kiss those plush lips that she keeps wetting with a short jet of her tongue.
But he shoves that desire down, down to where, no doubt, the rest of his blood is running, while his heart momentarily stops beating, both emotional and physical reactions as a result of the creature in front of him.
He tentatively places her hand on his bare stomach, hoping she isn't disappointed, because he knows he's not as tight as some of his coworkers, knows that he should really try to do more sit-ups during his spare time on the weekdays. Insecure now? Geez, get it together, Locksley.
Robin assumes she isn't too put off because her hand is moving, smooth finger tips and the gentle bite of manicured nails, skidding lower and lower, raising every hair and nerve on and in his body. Then, she's hooking them inside the waistband of his pants. He gasps.
He is suddenly very grateful for the clever invention on the costumes he dons, making the lower portion of his ensemble disappear with one pull on each side, dropping them to the floor because who cares?
Her hand is on his boxer briefs now, the one thing covering him, the only thing he's wearing besides a smile that he tries to bite his bottom lip to conceal, and she yanks hard, pulling him forward until he is nearly straddling her in her seat.
Robin is in heaven.
Until he's not.
As quickly as the fire sparks, it is inexplicably extinguished, her face falling from the smile he had managed to bring to it (Oh god, it is the most incredible smile he's ever seen, next to Roland's, and he knows it will haunt him every time he closes his eyes), and she uses the hand she still has on him to push him backwards- away from her.
Doing his best to not trip over his pants on the floor, he feels his heart sink as she, sporting a positively horrified expression, stands to her feet and flees from the room.
Well, you may have just cocked up the best thing to cross your path in a long time, good job, Robin berates himself, then takes to finish his portion as best he can and, mercifully, escapes backstage.
"Rest in Peace, Mr. Never-Misses-The-Mark," Neal, known to the Body Shoppe customers as "The Fire" taunts, as Robin enters the dressing lounge.
A large room, the lounge was similar, in design, to the rest of the strip club; all cherry hardwood, black materials, and gold accents, a bit fancy for a room where a group of gents dress behind simple black partitions and await their call to go on stage.
But, it also houses several, exceedingly comfortable, black leather sofas and a flat screen television and some sort of Xbox system, plus two, full bathrooms and a mini fridge for when the men were to lazy to put in a call to the Body Shoppe's inhouse kitchen or bar (for innocent beverages, only, as anyone on shift for a night is prohibited from having alcohol), so it is typically Robin's favorite space in the joint.
Not tonight, apparently.
"Yeah, what the hell happened out there?" "The Warrior", Phil, questions, plopping down onto one of the couches, opening his newly retrieved water bottle.
Robin grunts, he is in no mood for his mates' needling, not when his mind is concentrating on the woman who just ran from his touch, a woman he was captured by for some inexplicable reason.
He goes to the set of built-in lockers , on the far side, retrieving his clothes, going behind one of the partitions and slipping the robe, which are on hooks just backstage so the dancers aren't bare when walking back to the lounge, off and replacing it with a "Chicago Bulls" shirt and a pair of black sweatpants, then sits down on one of the sofas, beside "The Gentleman", Jeff, a fellow single father, one of his best mates, who Robin prays won't join in on the teasing that continues.
"Who was the woman who ran out on you?" Graham, "The Sheriff", asks raking a towel over his shaggy, brown hair as he exits one of the two, attached bathrooms, nodding to Jeff, "Shower's all yours, mate."
Great. Robin's one buffer, gone.
Jeff shrugs, clapping Robin's shoulder, then bounds towards the available washroom.
"So 'fess up, Locksley," Neal starts again, "Who was the chick?"
"The woman," Robin emphasizes, because if there is one thing he cannot stand, it's lack of respect for the opposite sex, "is just a customer."
August, "The Biker", snorts, "A customer who ran out during your set. Not a great review."
"Shut it, Wood. You're the last one who should be yanking me about satisfied customers," Robin snickers as the infliction of his nickname makes August close his mouth and resume his video game match with Eric, "The Fisherman".
It also takes the attention off of Robin, for a moment, as the men howl with laughter, recalling the time August poked a woman in the eye, with an erect body part, during a lap dance.
However, the laughter dies almost as quickly as it began and Graham is needling him again. "So you didn't know her?"
"No, I didn't and if you're going to keep this up, hand me a Coke, at least."
Graham fetches Robin the beverage, then sits beside Neal, who says, "You know, Ian snuck in some beer if you want something stronger."
Robin glances at the television monitor that hangs in the corner of the room, near the ceiling, sound currently muted, that shows a wide view of the main event room, where the final act, Killian "Ian" Jones is commanding the room as "The Captain."
"Unlike the pirate, I truly don't believe I'm an outlaw," He explains, with a chuckle, cracking open his can of Cocoa Cola, "I'm perfectly fine with following the rules."
"But not following a routine, apparently," Graham jests, earning him a fist bump from Neal.
Robin rolls his eyes. The next half hour, until he can finally go home, is going to feel much longer.
"Robin! Hey, what happened tonight?" Tom, "The Miner", emerges from the other bathroom, towel slung around his hips as he grabs a bag from his locker, then goes behind the partition, "Ash was back here and couldn't believe you strayed from the choreography."
"Maybe 'Ash' should be doing her job instead of paying attention to mine," Robin grumbled, taking a drink from his Coke.
Eric pauses the game (that, for the life of him, Robin can not remember what's called) and swivles around, sending Robin a smirk, "Don't you know? Her job is flirting with the pretty boy when he gets dirty."
"Asshole," Tom scolds as he comes out from behind the partition, whapping Eric in the head with his towel, "As if Ariel isn't here all the time."
"Ariel is my girlfriend, she comes to watch me."
"She comes to spy on you, dude," Neal laughs, then points at Tom, "Do you really want that? Seriously, don't shit where you eat, man."
Tom, the most recent addition to their lineup, only being an employee of the Golds' for three months, shrugs, "I like her."
"I like wolves. Doesn't mean I'm going to bang a wolf," Graham advises and Robin can't help but guffaw at that.
But at the sound of his laughter, Neal immediately focuses back on him, "Real question is, will Robin bang the Runaway Customer?"
Tom plops down beside Robin, arms folded and a large thank-god-the-attention-is-off-of-me grin, "Yeah, I wanna know that too."
"You gits belong on 'The View', not in a strip club," Robin scowls, attempting to school his anger- his anger at the pricks taunting him and at himself, because, yes, he can't help but wonder what it'd be like to touch the woman he had danced for tonight. To worship her perfect skin, to lick at her perfect lips, to have her perfect body writhing beneath him...
No.
He has no right to imagine that, to even hope for that. He doesn't know her, she, very clearly, didn't want to know him, and gods know if he'll ever even lay his eyes upon her stunning face again.
Maybe he is just too pent up. He hasn't been with, emotionally or physically, anyone since Marian and perhaps years devoid intimacy were taking their toll on his psyche. It had to be the only explanation to his fantasied "connection" to this woman, right?
"Come on, mate," Graham drawls, "This is the first and only time, in two years, that you've shown any interest in any woman."
"Let alone enough interest to completely disregard your routine," Eric comments, eyes on the screen as he and August had resumed their game.
"Yes, that too!" Neal exclaims, standing briefly to ruffle Eric's black hair like you would an obdient pet, then sitting back down, "Robin, we're just happy for you."
About what? Robin laughs bitterly, to himself. He groans, stare pointlessly aimed at the ceiling, "Not much to be happy about. I'll never see her again, she ran out like she was on fire."
"Maybe she was," Graham suggests, wiggling his eyebrows dramatically.
Robin bites his lip, "Nah, that wasn't someone who was overly aroused. More like scared."
"Of you? Robin you wouldn't hurt anyone!" Tom defends, which "The Outlaw" appreciates, but he can only shake his head.
"I don't know what it was about, don't think I ever will. I just hope I don't get fired because of it."
"No way," Neal scoffs immediately, "Gold knows you're one of the biggest weekend attractions besides Guyliner," he carelessly gestures to the monitor where Ian is finishing his set, "And if he was stupid enough to do that, he'd have to deal with me."
When Mr. Gold had opened the Body Shoppe, Neal had been 17 and homeless, both his parents on drugs and, basically, on the run, and Gold had found the teenager sleeping in one of the rooms that had yet to be renovated before the opening. As opposed to calling the police, the establishment owner decided to take Neal into his home, unofficially adopting him as his own. Neal started bussing tables at the club, when he was of legal age, to help save for college after he procurred his GED, and convinced Gold to let him become a dancer when he was 21. Now, at 25, he was attending grad school to further his career in astrophysics.
It was a touching story, one that had been a convincing factor when Robin originally took the job at the Body Shoppe.
"You didn't do that for me!" August, infusing mock outrage into his voice, accuses, looking at Neal, briefly, then back to the screen.
"The Fire" shrugs, "I had just become a dancer then. For all I knew, you were competition. And quit pouting, it worked out, Wood. You just aren't allowed to leave the stage."
August mutters a curse word, that Robin doesn't catch fully, beneath his breath and the men share a laugh.
One that is interrupted as Ian enters, beaming, "I was bloody fantastic, as usual. Had the ladies eating out of my dashing hand." He pauses in the doorway, eyes, rimmed in black makeup, landing on Robin, "But what the hell happened with you tonight, mate?"
"Don't say a word," Robin warns as he approaches the bar near the Body Shoppe's entrance, "Or I will throw you out on the street, I swear."
"Nah, you wouldn't do that," Will chuckles as he wipes down the bar, "Ya love seeing me handsome face too much!"
Robin scoffs, shaking his head at his cousin's humor.
Will, while not up to stripping, did take a job at the Body Shoppe when Robin did as the premiere bartender. It had been a good gig for the past two years. Will, having very little job experience and no higher education under his belt, was well-versed in alcohol and was charming enough to make quite a bit in tips. Plus, on the weekends, Robin and he carpooled. It was an efficient system.
Until an embarassing moment arose for Robin, because, now, he wants nothing but for his cousin to not be the one accompanying him home.
"Ya see one, albeit, beautiful chippy and you throw out the whole bloody thing! I don't know whether to be proud or disappointed, Robin!"
"Be silent," Robin advises, Will rounding the bar's corner, coming to stand beside him.
The 25-year-old nearly bounces with excitement, "But I have so many questions, mate!"
"One of those questions will be 'Can I rent this apartment?' because one more word and I'll throw you out."
Will waves off his threat, "You love Ana too much to do that."
"I never said she couldn't stay, just that you couldn't. And, honestly, who do you think she'd choose between you and Roland?" Will's face immediately falls and Robin smirks, triumphantly. "Now, let's go, shall we?"
"Robin!" A female voice calls out and Robin turns to see Belle, Mr. Gold's wife and a co-owner of the Body Shoppe, coming in his direction.
"Uh oh. The boss lady, that ain't good," Will murmurs in a hushed tone and Robin simply elbows him in the gut, harder than expected, forcing his cousin to stumble back a few paces.
"Hello Robin, hello William," Belle greets with a smile, her Austrailian accent warm and kind, as she usually is, "Robin, I just wanted to ask if you were available on Thursday?"
"Thursday?" Robin furrows his brow, then reaches a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing uncomfortably, "Um, Belle, I don't work weekdays, that was the-"
"I know and I wouldn't ask if it weren't worthwhile, but you've been requested for a private show. On Thursday. 8 o'clock."
"Requested? Really?" Could it be his "Runaway Customer"? No, you're being a ridiculous schoolboy. Get your head out of the sky, Locksley.
Belle nods, her smile widening, "And I'm sure you know how a private show, especially a solo one, pays for the night."
He does. Not from experience, no. Solo, private shows were strictly in the weekday evenings, which he always said he could never do. He had made an exception on a few Saturday or Sunday daylight hours, for a group, private show- mainly Bachelorette parties - which, alone, had paid for this past year's Christmas. A solo one is even more.
"Yes," He finds himself saying quickly, greedily, dollar signs and visions of trading up his problematic Toyota highlander dancing in his mind, "I'll do it. 8 on Thursday."
"Great!" Belle chirps, leaning forward and placing a friendly peck on Robin's cheek, "I'm sure this exception will be worth it."
If by "worth it" she means a new SUV with reasonable gas mileage, than yes, he sure hopes so.
Belle saunters away, but turns just before she enters the main room, "And Robin? Try not to make anyone run out that night."
Will howls with laughter and Robin can only pinch his eyes closed, embarassment washing over him.
"Hello boys," Anastasia exclaims from her place on the living room's sectional sofa as Robin and Will enter, "How did the night go?"
"Robin nearly jizzed himself over a woman and she ran out!" Will bursts, immediately upon questioning, walking towards the couch, dipping to give his wife a kiss, "Why are ya still up?"
"What!" Ana shouts, then bites her lip, obviously remembering the four-year-old asleep just upstairs. She presses a button on the remote, turning the TV off, (Alice in Wonderland, Robin notes before the screen goes black) and curling her, previously, outstretched legs, up to her chin. "You met a woman?! Finally!"
Robin sighs, walking past the couch and into the connected kitchen, cursing the open layout of the house, suddenly, as he feels the couple's eyes on him as he bends to retrieve a beer. "Robin!"
"Yes, there was a woman," Robin relents as he drags himself back to the living area, plopping into the Lazy Boy recliner, taking a swig from his bottle. "But it's not as your eloquent husband said."
"Well I knew that, you idiot," Ana admonishes with a scoff, as if he had insulted his cousin-in-law by thinking otherwise, "That's why I need to hear the real story!"
"Hey!" Will objects, he is seated next to his wife now, hand placed on her knee, "Are ya saying I'm not trustworthy? Babe, ya wound me."
"You do tend to exaggerate, my sweet," She reasons, narrowing her eyes suddenly at her husband, "Remember when we had a bonfire and your jacket, that you were not wearing, caught on fire and was categorized as a 'near death experience'?"
Will removes his hand from her knee, crosing his arms as he sinks back into the couch cushion petulantly, "Well far be it from me to not want to die like a bloody s'more!"
"Ugh," Ana groans in frustration, rolling her big, blue eyes before she settles back on Robin, "Please tell me what happened before I think you were left at the alter by a showgirl."
Robin laughs at her example of a Will exaggeration and shrugs, "Nothing to tell. There was a woman," The most beautiful one I've ever bore witness to, "And I danced for her and she ran out in the middle of it."
"Ha!" Will harrumphs, "He blew off his sodding routine, only payin' attention to this gal and when he was giving her a lap dance, she pushed him and flew!"
Anastasia backhands Robin's cousin on his chest, then looks back at "The Outlaw" with a sympathetic smile. "I'm so sorry, Robin."
Robin can only shrug again.
"But you liked this woman, yes?" Ana's eyes have lit up, her lips pursing as she, he can assume, is fighting a smile that is devoid of sympathy. A celebratory one.
Robin reluctantly nods, another swallow of his brusky calming his nerves.
"Marvelous," Ana hisses excitedly, conspiratorially, "Perhaps this means you are finally ready to move on from that hideous bitch-"
"Ana," Robin groans as she mentions Marian and her giddiness is replaced by fierce contemption.
"You can't disagree, Robin. Vile, little wench. She's lucky I haven't-"
"Ana!" He tries, once again, to scold. Anastasia, ever since she and Will moved in and she started being another caretaker for Roland, had developed a passionate dislike, to put it mildly, for his ex-wife. And while he couldn't find himself to ever truly disagree with her words, the woman was still Roland's mother, well, somewhat. That had to mean he couldn't trash talk her, right?
The blonde, a beautiful 24-year-old, with fair skin and golden locks trickled down past her shoulders, but was usually up in a bun, as it is now, clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. A semi-silent surrender, but one she is not happy about. "Fine. I'm just glad you are putting that... woman behind you."
"I never said that," Robin corrects, because it's true. He put Marian behind him long ago, the moment she abandoned their son, actually, but he never thought about dating before and he wasn't now. He is just thinking of one woman, a raven-haired, skiddish beauty with eyes that captured him like helpless prey.
Ana whines, irritated, "But Robin!", then nudges Will, "Talk some sense to your cousin."
"Ya need to get laid," Will, says in the form of "sense".
Ana drops her head to her hands, mumbling, "This is why I need you to find a woman. Being surrounded by you imbeciles all the time is killing me."
"Geez, I love you, too," Will sarcastically cracks, but his joke has Ana lifting her head, kissing him lovingly on the lips, whispering words like "Darling, you're my imbecile" and snuggling against him.
Robin wants to vomit.
"I'm going to bed," He announces, suddenly, finishing his beer, then stands to his feet, disposing of the bottle before he walks to the stairs. "Was he good tonight?"
"He always is," Ana smiles brightly, "He even ate his brussel sprouts for once, it was a momentous occasion."
"Thank you, Ana."
"Thank me by telling me this: Did you really like this woman tonight?"
Yes, a voice inside him screams, but he just shakes his head solemnly, "I don't know her enough to like her. I was just.. distracted by her. One time thing."
"This is not over!" He hears Ana call out as he treks up the steps to his home's second floor.
He stops at the first door on the right, cautiously pushing open the door, assaulted by the bright green nightlight right beside the door, inside. But, because of it, he can also see his greatest accomplishment in life. His son.
Roland is fast asleep in his bed. He's curled in a ball beneath the sheets, his stuffed monkey wedged under the tight grasp of his arms, his bountiful, brown curls haphazardly splayed on the pillow, covering most of Spiderman's face, unlike the rest of the bed set.
Robin ponders going over and pressing a kiss to Roland's head, but as he hears soft snores emitting from his son, he decides against it, wants him to stay in a deep, peaceful sleep, so he quietly closes the door.
After a quick shower, he is in his bed, body exhausted and begging for the relief of sleep, but mind racing and wide awake.
Trying to slip into a slumber, he closes his eyes, but can only see a pair of chocolate brown ones staring back at him.
Yes, he does like her.
And, yes, he is, most definitely, in trouble.