Roland is perilously close to outgrowing his racecar bed, if he does not bend his knees while lying upon the mattress his feet knock against the hard plastic of the bumper. He loves the bed though. And Robin, Robin remembers the day they bought this bed for him, he and Marian, Marian pushing Roland in a stroller ahead of her, 'He likes it,' Marian had said, laughing and lovely as she'd unclipped the two year old and let him climb all over the display.
Roland is four now, outgrowing his racecar bed, and Marian…she is gone.
"Ready for bed?" Robin asks, flipping the light switch up and down as he comes in from the hall, up and down, bathing the room in light, blinking it into darkness, light, dark, light, dark, until the boy let's out an exasperated 'Papa!'
Robin chuckles and leaves the light switch alone, he smiles at Roland as the little fleece covered boy searches through a pile of books in the corner, Robin pads barefoot into the blue painted room, the boy in his pajamas, Robin too, in his flannel pants and an old t-shirt, though he is hours still away from bed himself, he'll sit and read, watch television, alone, he'll do these things alone and then go to bed alone in a few hours. "You brushed your teeth?" Robin asks.
"Yes, Papa," Roland answers, one book held in his tiny hands, he is scrutinizing the cover, it holds his attention for a moment before it's placed on top of the others. A mountain of books, nearly half as tall as the seated child, sways dangerously with the new addition.
Robin sits on the bed, his feet planted on the ground, hands on his knees as he chuckles at his son, "We can do two stories tonight if you can't decide on one," as if he offers something special or extraordinary, but the truth is the boy often cajoles a second story, sometimes even a third, from Robin with nothing more than pleading puppy eyes.
Roland smiles, does not look up, but a quiver of excitement rocks through his tiny body, he grabs two brightly colored books and pelts to the bed, unmindful of the stack that topples behind him, all the vibrant books crashing upon the thick cream carpet that has more than one juice stain adorning its surface. Roland flies towards the bed, flopping down and bouncing on his belly before Robin gathers him up and starts to tickle that very same belly.
"Papa, no," Roland squirms, smiling, screeching loudly and flailing the books in his hands, "it's bedtime!" the four year old reminds Robin, trying to sound stern.
Robin drops Roland down with an exaggerated sigh, as if the boy has ruined his fun, and Roland giggles, the giggling boy up on his knees in an instant, holding his books out to his father, "ah," Robin grins, takes the books, "are you certain?" Roland tucks himself into Robin's side, nodding energetically as he grabs at his blanket and wraps it around his shoulders and partly over Robin's knees.
Robin makes a big show of getting comfortable, until another groan of 'Papa!' is heard through the room.
"Alright," Robin kisses the top of Roland's head, appeasing the child, "Ready?" Robin asks, finally done teasing the boy, Robin rubs circles into Roland's back, soothing circles that already have the boy slumping towards sleep, slumping from Robin's side down to his leg, his head of curls laid down on Robin's thigh.
"Ready," Roland says, a sharp nod of his chin near Robin's knee.
So Robin reads to him, angles the book so Roland can see all the pictures, though his eyes droop closed before Robin is even five pages in.
Robin finishes the first book…
And then the second, his voice soothing and easy and gentle, lulling the little boy to sleep, as he has done all the boy's life, bedtime had always been Robin and Roland time, warm and comfy with their stories, Marian used to stand at the door and smile, a sweet smile that Robin aches to remember, he looks up towards the hall, as if to catch sight of her. But she is gone.
"-ey both lived happily ever after," Robin finishes the storybook quietly, closing it softly; Roland is a heavy weight against him. He's heavy, but not completely asleep.
"Papa," Roland mumbles, "can we visit Miss Regina again tomorrow?"
Robin eases out from under Roland, adjusting the boy until he's splayed back on his bed, his head on his pillow, he's draped over the bed, his feet nearly overhang from the bumper. He needs a new bed. Robin pets hair off of Roland's face easily, "We just saw her today," Robin whispers as he reaches over and turns on Roland's nightlight, a frog that glows green.
Roland blinks his eyes open, dark eyes, the green light plays in them before he blinks, once, twice, "I didn't like leaving her there," the boy says, slurring his words.
Robin could tell that for himself, the boy had thrown something that very closely resembled a tantrum when it was time to go, they had spent an hour there, with Regina Mills in her hospital room, the boy and her talking and talking, her hanging off each word from the child's mouth like it was the most important and thrilling conversation she'd ever had the privilege to partake in. Robin had been content to watch them both, the boy and the woman, offering input when prompted, but mostly he stood by his flowers and smiled and watched. He'd been shocked by how much time had passed him by when he finally looked up at the mounted clock on the wall, shocked by how easy it was to let the world slip away.
"Why, Roland?" Robin's brow scrunches, he frowns and lowers one knee to the carpet, kneeling instead of crouching, he lands a hand on top of Roland's on top of the boy's Batman sheets.
Roland's bottom lip is drawn into his mouth, chewed on before he shrugs his narrow shoulders, "We left Mama there," Roland whispers in response, tiny face screwing up, his eyes blink open again. There is so much pain in his dark eyes.
Robin can only swallow, his face blanching, terrible heartache erupting in his chest, in his heart, he looks down at Roland's hand, he moves it up to his lips, kisses the tiny tired fingers, "You remember that, Roland?" he says against his boy's soft knuckles. Robin had hoped he had not, that the memories of the hospital, of Mama sick and weak, dying, had hoped those memories had faded, but it's far more likely those are the only memories Roland will have of her.
"It smelled funny there," Roland scrunches his nose, squirms on the bed.
"Roland," Robin is near tears, he swallows them down, "Mama went to be with the angels, up in heaven. We didn't leave her there, my boy, she went to heaven."
But Roland is asleep, his mouth open, a light snore coming from him, his hand is limp in Robin's hold. Robin looks at his son for long minutes, at his perfect little face, his perfect little hands, until he gathers the strength to stand, flicking the light switch as he passes, the only light in the boy's room coming from the glowing green frog.
Robin feels foolish, because once again he carries flowers with him, as if he cannot possibly go to her without some offering, without a showing of his gratitude, a bouquet of blue orchids. He holds Roland's hand tightly all the way from the Jeep to the hospital doors, noticing now how the little boy looks up at the huge building with large wet eyes, with a jutting lip that is an attempt at the bravery he has seen in his cartoon heroes.
"Regina isn't like how Mama was," Robin tries to explain to Roland in the elevator, they are alone in the old jumbling thing, he kneels down next to Roland, passes the bouquet to the boy. "Mama was sick, Roland. She was sick, but Regina is only hurt, she's going to get all better."
"She gets to go home?" Roland asks, shuffling his feet, sniffling at the orchids.
"Yes," Robin smiles, it covers his sadness, he hopes it does. Robin grips the boy by his shoulders, a reassuring grip, "she'll go home."
Robin tries to get the boy to look him in the eye, but it takes Robin's fingers under his chin to lift the boy's eyes, "Roland, she'll go home, I promise."
The elevator dings, the doors sweep open, it's her floor, but Robin waits for Roland to nod his little head, an acknowledgement of Robin's promise, before he stands and ushers them both out into the overly bright hall. Roland needs both hands to hold the bouquet that is nearly as big as he is, so Robin keeps a hand on the little boy's shoulder all the way to her door.
A nurse nods to them, smiling slightly at the small child with the huge bouquet. Robin nods in return as they pass each other. It's the acknowledgement of the nurse that starts it, Déjà vu races through him, how familiar all the corridors of this hospital are, how the sounds and the smells and the sound of far off motion can carry down the bleached and worn floors, it all washes over him, his heart starts thumping, he takes a deep breath in, lets it out.
Regina is not like how Marian was, Regina gets to go home.
It's only Roland stopping, pulling his shoulder from Robin's grasp, that breaks Robin from his thoughts. He stutters to a stop and turns to find her door.
Robin raises his hand to knock.
"Yes?" her voice comes to him, her rich voice, and his cheeks color suddenly, quick like lightening, as he imagines the way her mouth forms her words, how it would form his name. Her mouth, he is thinking of her mouth, Robin's cheeks only color more, as he reaches for the handle and eases the door open, her lovely mouth.
But his embarrassment disappears at her smile, or more accurately, he forgets about it, forgets to breath as well, when he pushes open the door and Roland rushes in, her whole face brightens, brightens the room that is bright with morning sun, her whole face transformed, as the little boy rushes to her side. Washed in golden light, she is a vision.
"Good morning, sweetheart!" she says, obviously surprised, twisting to wrap Roland in a one armed hug as he skids to a stop at the guardrails, "You're here to see me?" she questions, and the boy nods and chatters, holding the bouquet up, nearly shoving the flowers into her face, "so soon?" she sends that question over Roland's curls, she looks as though she has just woken, pillow depressions still marking her face, her shoulder length hair a wild halo of dark curls.
Robin takes in a breath, a rushed thing, he holds up his hands, sheepish, but her smile does not slip, she shakes her head with a laugh, her eyes twinkling, creases forming at the corners of her eyes for how hard she is smiling, Robin watches in wonderment. He remembers to breathe again after a moment, stepping forward to pluck the flowers from Roland's overzealous hands.
"I apologize for not calling-" Robin starts, he could have called her room number and asked, he should have, he's afraid he has woken her up.
"It might have been prudent," she admits, head tilted, eyes following Robin as he rounds the bed to put the orchids by all the other flowers he has given her.
Robin places them on the sill, there is barely enough room for them, "I'm so sorry, you're expecting other company, aren't you?" Robin realizes, biting his lip as he turns to look at her again, she's petting Roland's curls absent mindedly, she nods at Robin's question.
"My sister is bringing my son soon," she looks over to the wall clock, to the slow crawl of the minute hand clicking softly around.
"We can leave, if you'd prefer," Robin assures, just as Roland chirps an enthusiastic 'Henry is coming?!'
Roland turns to Robin, eyes wide, "Please, I wanna meet Henry!" he'd heard quite a lot about her son yesterday.
She makes a shushing sound, still petting Roland's untamable hair, "It's alright, keep me company till they get here?" as if she is asking the boy, but she turns slightly, eyes on Robin.
"Yes, of course," Robin says, "but we won't monopolize her, right Roland?" Robin walks back to his boy, bends down and hugs the little boy's little waist, it brings him closer to her, closer to her smiling face and dark hair, he sees a scar decorating her lip, "We'll meet her boy and then we're off," he says even as a selfish thought runs past his brain, that he would very much like her all to himself, he releases his son and backs off, sits down in the arm chair and he watches Roland at her side, chatting to her and getting smiles in return and suddenly there in Robin's brain is the idea that he would very much like her to himself.
It seems like minutes, it has been forty-five, before her son arrives.
"Henry," she greets, breathing out her child's name like she never thought she'd see him again when the lad opens the door, Robin remembers the boy's father in this very room just yesterday, and her son is older then Robin had thought he would be.
"Hey, Mom," the boy says, tone questioning, eyeing Robin in the armchair, and Roland snuggled on the bed next to her.
Henry looks to be pushing teenagerhood. Robin glances from the boy to the woman in the bed, who looks about Robin's own age, and Robin had thought he and Marian having Roland at thirty had been far too young, she must have been not much more than a child herself when she had her son. Had her son with a man old enough to be her father. A man who she flinches from.
"Honey, come here," she says, beckoning her son, who leaves the door open behind him, "I want you to meet Roland, he's the little boy that-"
"That you saved?" Henry asks, his wariness finally relenting, he smiles down at Roland, at his mother, and he may not look like his mother, he did not get his skin or hair or eyes from her, but that smile, the way it curves in the corners, that smile is his mother's smile.
"She did saved me!" Roland says, pushing up to sit, using her ribs as leverage, his weight, his little hands on her person, have her gasping and then hissing out a sharp breath.
"Roland," Robin scolds, shooting up and forward from the chair, swerving around Henry to pluck Roland away from her, Robin knew it was a bad idea to have him up there, but the boy had climbed up and she had smiled. Roland pouts as Robin grips him under the armpits and lifts him, lifting him from her side, she's still wincing, trying to smile through the expression of pain, "She's hurt all over," Robin reminds his little boy, whispering it as he places the boy gently on his feet.
"Are you okay, Mom?" Henry questions, moving right up against the guardrails, and a second later Roland too is at the plastic, peeking over it with guilty eyes.
"I'm fine," she says, her voice strangled, obviously not fine, Henry is old enough to realize that, and Roland is looking very dubious about the statement as well. She's holding her side with her left hand, curving her fingers over her ribs, but she rolls her eyes up at them, "Boys," she says, and it's when her eyes sweep over Robin as well as the children that he realizes he's been rolled up in the term too, "I'm fine."
Her sister walks in through the open door then, a metal buckle on her purse smacking against the doorframe as she enters, Robin turns to look at her, "Regina?" she questions immediately, plopping the huge purse on the chair Robin had been sitting in, she rounds the bed, no eyes for Robin, for Roland, the redheads entire focus on her sisters hand, the hand that is still trembling and held against ribs. "Do you need a nurse? What happened?" the redhead hovers, she has an accent, she's not quite touching, but very near.
"No, I'm fine," Regina repeats again, annoyed now, it's there in her voice.
"I'm so sorry, Miss Regina," Roland warbles, close to tears, trying to sniffle them back, his bottom lip stuck out, his breath hiccups.
"No, sweetheart," she tries to sit up, but can't do it, "It's alright."
"What did he do?" the redhead snaps, her tone all wrong, accusing and mean, it's when her bright blue eyes finally regard Roland, and he backs up against Robin's legs, that Robin picks up his little boy and holds him against his side.
"Zelena," Regina chastises sharply, her hand leaving her ribs, going to her sisters bare wrist, wrapping her grip around the pale skin marked by a dark jagged line, a skyline of a city decorating her skin. "I'm fine," she stresses, and blue eyes meet brown, an entire conversation simmering in the air between their locked gazes, more meaning then Robin is privy to. Robin's ire, hot and bubbling in his veins as Roland tucks his head against Robin's neck, does not dim.
"I think that's our cue to leave, my boy," Robin says, and if his voice is hard, if it is pissed off, he does not care.
Not until Regina calls out after him, "Robin!" his name from her, and how he wishes he could have seen it form on her lips, he turns to look at her, with her son on one side, and her sister still in her grip on the other. "Can I say goodbye?" she questions, nodding towards Roland. She sounds almost pleading.
Roland nods against Robin's neck, mumbling such a sentiment himself. And very suddenly Robin feels a complete asshole. He walks Roland back to her bedside, Regina Mills kisses Roland's cheek, the boy still held against Robin, his spine bending down towards her, she wipes his tears away and gets him to giggle with whispered words.
And then Robin and his boy leave.
"Robin," Granny calls from the front, something is off about her voice.
Robin scratches at his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose, before he closes the screen of his laptop. His billing and accounts can wait, he decides.
"Yes, Granny?" he says as he stands, as he squeezes between the edge of his desk and the floral wall paper.
Robin stops in his tracks as he exits the small hall, as he stands in the doorway leading into the shop.
"Robin Locksley," the old man says, in a dark blue suit and tie, smiling at Robin and Robin can only stare dumbly, tension grows in the air, "I was hoping you could help me."
The old man, Henry's father, the man old enough to be Regina Mills's father, standing in Robin's shop like he has any right to be here, as if he had not raised his hand and the woman who'd saved Roland had not flinched from the gesture, this man is not welcome here. Robin looks about the shop, it's empty but this old man, "You'll get no help from me," Robin says, and Granny turns to look at him, look at him as his voice becomes a growl.
Leo smiles, unperturbed by Robin's expression, which is murderous at this point, the old man putters around, one finger lifting and gently stroking the long petal of a white flower, "I'll need a bouquet," he says.
"We're fresh out today," Robin seethes, landing fisted hands upon his counter top, Granny next to him bounces her weight from foot to foot, her frown deepening.
"Is that so?" Leo chuckles slightly, stilling in the center of the shop, looking at all the flowers, at the shop full of flowers. "I'm going to visit my wife; I want to bring her something pretty."
Robin swallows at the word wife, "She didn't seem to appreciate your company the last time."
Leo shrugs, an arrogant rise of his shoulders, everything about him is arrogant, he's money, Robin can see that by the fine cut of his suit, by the way he treats the others in this world. "She gets confused sometimes," Leo says.
Robin has no use for this, no need, it's his shop, his, and he need not suffer this man, he wants to throttle him, wants to cut him, his hands clench further, and Regina flinching plays on a loop in his head, "Leave the premises, before I call the police," Robin chokes out, closing his eyes.
That seems to surprise the old man, Granny too if the small noise she makes is anything to go by, Leo's gaze turns questioning, as if he is reevaluating everything, before he says, "Thank you for the help," to Granny and then does exactly as Robin told him to do, walking out the glass door, the bells jangling above his head as he turns in the doorway, hand on the frame, looking back at Robin before he smiles and leaves, a gust of cold air coming in before the door shuts.
"What the hell was that all about?" Granny turns to Robin, thumping him on the shoulder when he does not answer her right away.
His blood is still thrumming through his ears.
"Who was that? Robin? And what the hell was that whole intimidation dance he was doing?"
"That's her husband," Robin finally answers; the word husband hissed out like it's a dirty word.
"Whose husband? What are you talking about-"
"Her husband," Robin says again, spinning from the counter and stalking back into the office, there is no door to slam, nothing to do but squeeze back to his chair and throw himself down.
Granny is peering at him when he finally opens his eyes a few minutes later; she's standing with her arms crossed, hip cocked and a frown deeply etched at her brow. "You done throwing a huff?" she says, totally unimpressed.
Robin nods sullenly, poking at the papers on his desk.
"Now by 'her'," Granny goes on, taking a further step into the office, "I'm assuming you're meaning Miss Mills from next door," she waits for Robin to nod.
"Alright," she leans down on the desk top, looking at him with serious eyes, "you want that girl, you go get that girl, and stop all this nonsense. There's no way a woman that young and pretty is married to a giant prick like that, not for long anyway, so relax before you have a stroke."
Robin splutters, denials on his tongue, he doesn't 'want the girl', but on the back of that is remembering her lovely face, her mouth, her warmth with Roland, the way her hair curled around her face, dark hair and dark eyes…Robin gulps and nearly falls from his chair as realization washes over him.
Dread crawls its way through him.
Archie's office is in a drafty old brick building on the outskirts of the city, an area ripe with crime, the rent is low; Archie has shared with Robin, because the area is ripe with crime Robin can only assume, because it's a cesspool for the needy and the depraved alike. It's beginning to change, Archie has also said, change for the better with the influx of youths that think it cool to live in the abandoned buildings, among the abandoned squalor of an industrial age well past, youths who fancy themselves artists and writers, kids who must look at these old brick buildings and pothole ridden streets and see something far different than what Robin sees.
The train screeches, Robin jerks sideways in his seat, his back to the windows that show the station they are fast approaching, he lurches in his seat towards the front of the train as it tries to slow, as it lurches and falters to a stop, 'st-tio- Fay-tte' a voice, scratchy and unintelligible comes from the speakers over the doors, '-ayette –ation' it repeats, and above the doors, in lurid glowing green it reads Fayette Station in scrolling type on the display, end of the line.
Robin sighs and stands before the train has come to full stop, he's grabbing at handholds as he makes his way to the doors, impatient as he waits for them to slide open with a hiss. The train gives one last great splutter and then it stills, held securely in the dirty concrete cradle of Fayette station, illuminated by the buzzing bulbs that flicker in the cavernous space that is covered in decades of dirt. Robin is one of only three that steps off the train, up and down the platform, only three step off, and only one climbs on for the return trip to the center of the city.
Robin bundles up, zips the zip of his jacket, begins walking to the steep stairs, 'Spare some change?' a man asks, a man sitting against the wall, in rags, layers of rags, a grey tabby cat purring on his lap.
'Here, mate,' Robin mutters, not coming to a complete stop as he digs out a bill from his pocket, slipping it into the cup the man had been holding out.
'oh, no, man,' the man calls after Robin's back, 'dude, that's a twenty, here you ca-'
Robin is already past him, waving him off, he springs up the steps, flinging up his hood against the drizzle falling through the sun. When he is above ground he takes a huge breath, eyes closing, breathing in the stink of iron in the air, the stink of rusted machinery, breathing in the stench of oil drum fires.
With his eyes still closed he takes two steps, he knows the way. He has come to Archie's office every other week, at two o'clock in the afternoon every other Tuesday, for five years, at first a necessity of his release, now a necessity to his life. He walks the cracked sidewalk with his head down, his hands in his pockets.
Archie's practice is on the top floor of a warehouse converted into office space, an old cage elevator the only way up or down but for a very dodgy looking fire escape barely held to the battered outside wall. It is only a twelve minute walk from the train.
He makes it in ten, stomping, his hands deep in his pockets, his head tilted down.
It's always cold here, in the waiting room; the huge windows up near the ceiling are grimy, rain pattering against dirt and dust that have never been cleaned, the windows constantly sucking out all the heat. Robin pops the collar of his coat, tucks his ears down into it as he licks his lips, adjusts himself in the chair, it groans under his weight and at the sound Robin tries not to cringe. He is alone in the room, alone with shabby chairs, with a radio that softly croons out oldies, with an electric heater that whines in the corner but does not actually seam to offer warmth; Archie had welcomed him with a smile, and promptly asked him to please just wait a moment, easing Robin sitting before retreating back to his main office.
Robin reaches forward and snags a magazine from the low table, his choice a National Geographic, though he is tempted by the gossip rag that claims Camilla to be a vampire. He looks at the magazine, at the pictures, beautiful pictures, but cannot string the written words together, his thoughts too jumbled to arrange the words into any meaning.
The office door opens with a creak ten minutes later, the noise worthy of any haunted house, and Archie's soothing voice mixes with the jingling of Pongo's collar and tags, "I'm very proud of you," Archie is saying quietly. The dog bounces out the office before anyone else, the Dalmatian dancing and trotting over to Robin. Robin pats at Pongo's flank, flops the magazine he'd been pretending to read down upon the table, "There's a good dog," Robin growls out, smooshing the dogs face, scrunching at his ears.
Robin looks up as he pushes at Pongo's chest, a playful shove that throws the dog back a step, only to have Pongo happily rushing back with stinky licks aimed for Robin's face. Robin laughs and pushes the dog once more before standing.
Archie steps out of the office with his hand on a woman's shoulder, a woman who has clearly been crying, but she gives a soft smile and nods before striding to the door. She only gives Robin the barest of regard, enough to tip her head and then she is gone, he would expect nothing else from her.
"Good afternoon, Robin," Archie greets, holding out a hand to shake, smiling, his gaze slipping from the retreating woman's back over to Robin's face. "I'm terribly sorry about that, but-"
"No need," Robin reassures, shaking the proffered hand, clapping a hand against Archie's shoulder.
Archie squints from behind his glasses, his mouth open slightly, "Here, come on in," he urges Robin, care in his voice, "has something happened?"
Robin squeezes Archie's shoulder once, a soft squeeze before he releases him, before he walks past him into the office that is far warmer than the waiting room, a radiator belting out heat by the desk that is overrun with loose papers that flutter from under their paperweights and a monstrous amount of thickly bound books.
"I nearly lost him," Robin says, taking off his coat and hanging it on a hook by the door, the words tumble out of his mouth, it seems he has said it to so many, to Marian in the graveyard, to John in the pub, and to Regina, Regina in the hospital, he had told them all how he'd nearly lost Roland, but Robin thinks, very much thinks, that Archie is the only one that will truly, truly understand what losing Roland would mean.
Archie sits in his wingback, head tilted, concern in his eyes, care in his hands when he motions Robin to sit, "You're speaking of Roland? Robin, what happened?"
And he tells it all. Again.
"I could not live without him," he finishes it with. And looks up at Archie… and Archie understands.
Archie looks down for a second, pen bobbing over and over the pad of paper he's got on his knee, when he finally looks up, he shakes his head. "Roland can't be your only tether, Robin," he says quietly.
He has said this before.
"I know," Robin agrees, his hands clasped together, he's staring at the plain gold band on the ring finger of his left hand, a thick band that he hasn't taken off since the day Marian slipped it on his finger. She'd been swollen with pregnancy, her ankles swollen, her back in perpetual agony, but she had smiled and cried with happiness as they stood in the courthouse, her in a simple white sundress that barely fit, she had been so beautiful, sunshine on her.
Unbidden, and upsetting once he realizes where his thoughts ran, Robin thinks of Regina Mills and her smile in the bright early sun shining through her hospital room windows, Roland snuggled into her side as she held the remote up and flipped through channel after channel, '-orks wonders! Only two paymen-', 'Afghanistan toda-', before the obvious sounds of childrens' programming came from the scratchy speakers and Roland's delighted cry of 'It's Spongebob!' rang through the room.
He flinches. As he did yesterday. As he has done each time his thoughts have wondered to her. It happens more often than he'd ever realized, thinking of her, as he'd made macncheese for Roland, as he'd watched television, as he stood at he and Marian's windows this morning, sipping his coffee, his thoughts had turned to the woman with the sleeves, the dark haired woman. He has flinched each time.
"What are you thinking of?" Archie's voice is quiet, the sound his pen makes upon striking the pad of paper has ceased, his question is not loud, but it is sharp, the flinch obviously worrying him.
Robin takes a deep breath in, his jaw working, his hands clenching against each other, his thick gold band burning at his eyes, "I'm thinking of the woman that saved Roland," Robin admits.
"Ah," Archie says, a soft reply, "your neighbor?" he asks.
Robin nods, does not look up at the other man, "Yes, she runs the-"
"You've spoken of her before, Robin," Archie interrupts him, something he has rarely done in all the years Robin has been his patient.
Robin is quiet, thinking hard, his breathing slow and even, he's making his breathing slow and even, trying to think, "Have I?"
Archie is quiet for a long time, until Robin looks up at him, "Since the tattoo parlor opened eight months ago," Archie tilts his head, empathy in every line of his face, "You're very interested in her," Archie says, just as the radiator churns out a terrible racket and rattles against the wall.
Robin flinches back again, flinches from Archie's soft observation.
"Robin, it's perfectly natural," Archie leans forward in his seat, his pad of paper and his pen sliding down to the cushion of his chair, "and perfectly healthy to start to look at other peop-"
"Marian is my wife!" Robin thunders, not a yell, not quite.
The declaration hangs in the air between them, a solid and awkward thing. Pongo whines from his bed.
Archie says it slowly, he moves his hands slowly, "Marian is dead, Robin."
"I know!" Robin says, quieter now, threading his hands through his hair, pulling on it. He takes a huge breath in, "I know that," he repeats, forcibly calm.
"She is dead, and it's perfectly healthy to be interested in others."
Robin shakes his head, will not voice it but it's clear on his face, it must be, that he thinks it would be anything but healthy, it is a betrayal.
DISCLAIMER: Never Mine