They're still walking north when the second tower collapses, whipping their heads around on instinct when a woman in the knot of people behind them lets out a scream.

It's like something out of a movie, surreal and terrifying, a cloud of ash and debris rolling up the avenue as that tall, proud matchstick crumples into ash.

She's tugged, yanked, stumbles blindly around a corner and then his body is against hers. Brick at her back, Robin at her front, sheltering her. She ducks her head down against him, her hand trapped between his shoulder and her mouth (she doesn't even remember lifting it there, her fingers are icy, shaking, she's shaking all over). He smells like sweat and dust, the distinct masculine smell of men's deodorant and somewhere underneath that, a phantom whiff of the cologne he always wears.

For a moment, she feels sheltered, almost safe. As safe as possible under the circumstances. Does peace come before death, she wonders? Is this it? Worse, does she mind? (Yes, she thinks. She does mind.)

She's not sure how long they stand there, listening to shouting and sirens and chaos. But they don't die, and eventually he must decide they're not going to, because Robin leans away from her slightly. His hands move from the building at her back, and she realizes hers are now white-knuckled in his dress shirt.

It is most definitely no longer white.

She loosens her grip and wipes at the ash on his shoulder, the sweat on her hands only darkening it, making it look grimy. She can see her fingers shaking, so she curls them into the fabric again and holds tight.

The air is grey, everything is just...grey.

"Regina—" Her gaze flicks to his and holds, and then all of a sudden he's kissing her, his fingers tangling in her hair, pulling slightly but she barely feels it and she's glad for it anyway. It means she's alive enough to feel pain.

He tastes like dust, and his mouth is hot and damp, his body solid against hers. Warm. He's warm and solid and alive, and she can feel the roughness of brick through the silk at her shoulders.

There are sirens, and there's shouting, and there's Robin's mouth, demanding and desperate and then suddenly there's nothing.

He rips away from her; she feels cold, her fingers slack, one hand rising to touch lips that tingle, the other pressing against the brick behind her to anchor her.

It's not until he apologizes that she remembers she's married, and that kissing is not something she should be doing with the very attractive British consultant who just narrowly survived whatever-the-hell-is-going-on-right-now with her.

"It's okay," she tells him, pressing her lips together and letting her hand fall back to join the other on the brick. "Under the circumstances."

He nods, and holds out a hand for her, but says nothing more on the subject.

"Come on, let's get somewhere safe."