On Thursday, Regina leaves work early - a rare occurrence, but Henry has a speaking part in a class assembly this afternoon, and it's scheduled late enough in the day that she's able to leave halfway through the afternoon and make it there just in time. She'd gone in a little bit early, had worked through lunch, had expressed her gratitude to Leo for possibly the fourth time since he approved the early leave, and had been reassured by Sidney that everything would be fine without her for an afternoon. They have a presentation scheduled for Tuesday, but that still leaves tomorrow and Monday for prep, and so she relishes her early exit.
It's another warm day, another sunny afternoon, and after school she takes Henry out for ice cream to celebrate his perfect memorization of his part. Will it ruin his dinner? Yes, probably, but they can eat late, she supposes, and it's a special occasion. He creates a monstrosity, a scoop each of chocolate, and mint chip, and strawberry, with crushed toffee bars, and chocolate chips, and fudge sauce and whipped cream. God, she's a horrible mother for not curbing him, not making him scale it back, but there's nothing wrong with indulging every now and then and she refuses to be Cora, she refuses to police something as innocent as a rare ice cream date.
And just to prove her own point, she opts for ice cream for herself instead of her typical sorbet or froyo. Real ice cream, strawberry, sprinkled with slivered almonds and an indulgent drizzle of caramel. She orders two scoops, her growling stomach speaking for her, and figures she'll end up leaving a bit behind (she usually does). Instead she devours the whole thing, scrapes every last bit from the paper cup, and takes three bites from the minty portion of Henry's sundae when he finds himself defeated.
"You must've been really hungry," Henry tells her, impressed. And yes, she had been. It turns out a Lärabar does not a proper lunch make.
They're home by early evening, and Regina sends Henry off to get started on his homework and his reading, before changing out of her work clothes and curling herself in one of the arm chairs in their living room to do some reading of her own.
By 8:30, she's debating whether they need to have dinner at all (they do, Henry does, he should have something nutritious, but she's still stuffed).
At 8:32, her cell phone rings, and it's Sidney. She frowns, answers the call.
"Regina Mills," she greets out of habit.
"Regina, it's Sidney," he tells her, as unnecessary as her own declaration of her name. "Is there any chance you could come back into the office?"
She frowns, glancing at the clock. "Now?"
"Tuesday's meeting is being moved up to tomorrow - the client rep had to change his travel plans," he tells her, sounding as annoyed as she's suddenly feeling. So much for having Friday to plan. "Kathryn is already on her way back, but we could really use the whole team."
She sighs, and nods even though he can't see her, uncurling her knees with a grunt at their stiffness and muttering, "Yeah, alright. I'm on my way in. Do you need me to call Mal?"
"No, I'll, uh… I'll do it," he tells her, and Regina finds herself smirking at the obvious reluctance in his voice. She can't imagine Mal being particularly docile about having her evening swallowed up by emergency work.
"See you soon," she tells him before ending the call.
She dials Mary Margaret's number as she heads back to her bedroom in search of something more appropriate for the public than the leggings she'd thrown on thinking she might spend some time on the treadmill after reading.
The conversation is not a fruitful one.
Mary Margaret, it turns out, has plans. Well, dinner. Well, dinner and a movie maybe. Well, maybe she could reschedule, but she was already on her way out the door, it will take her almost an hour to get to Regina's from where she is now. Is that okay?
And no, not really, it's a damn annoyance is what it is, so she tells her to hold tight, that she'll try to find someone to at the very least cover a little bit of the early evening, and get back to her.
Once she's back in slacks and a sweater, she pokes her head into Henry's room (he gives her a guilty face when she catches him playing video games instead of reading, but he's had plenty of time to finish by now, and she trusts him, tells him so) and lets him know what's going on.
"Can I go to John's?" he asks hopefully, surprise surprise, and Regina would tell him no immediately, but, well, Granny Lucas is out of town this week and there aren't many other neighbors that Regina knows well enough to trust with Henry.
So instead she tells him, "We'll see," and heads for the John and Robin's. It's just an hour, maybe the guys won't mind...
Just her luck, it seems they have company. Aside from the car double-parked out front and half-blocking traffic, there's the sound of a television playing loudly, several shadows moving across the blinds as she climbs the step.
This isn't promising.
But still, she knocks, and a moment later Robin opens the door, the unmistakable, pungent smell of marijuana immediately wafting from behind him.
Regina's eyes roll so hard it almost hurts, and she shakes her head, and mutters, "Nevermind," mentally berating herself for ever thinking this was a good idea in the first place. They're not babysitters, they're men. Single, irresponsible men. And so what if one of them has a child and the other a dog, they're imbeciles, both of them. (At least, they are tonight when she's in a bind and they're of no help to her.)
"Wait - Regina!"
He reaches out, grasps her arm just long enough for her to still and turn, leveling him with an impatient look. He glances back behind him, and she can hear laughter, male voices, and then he's pulling the door nearly shut, stepping half onto the porch to do so, and asking, "What did you need?"
"Nothing," she tells him emphatically. "Not if you're high."
"I'm not," he insists, holding up his hands, palms out, claiming innocence. It would be more effective if he wasn't so… fragrant. "They're smoking, I'm not. If you need something…"
She narrows her eyes skeptically, pointing out, "You smell like a Nirvana concert."
"Well, that'll tend to happen when you're sitting in a room with a bunch of blokes smoking pot, but I assure you, I'm not high. I'm trying to be better for myself - for my son."
"By sitting around with a bunch of guys smoking weed," she accuses doubtfully.
"Well, what am I expected to do, sit up in my room and read my Bible while my mates are here getting caned?"
Regina's only response is a pointed lift of her brows and a tight crossing of her arms. Why is she even still standing here? It had seemed an easy solution five minutes ago - having Henry stay with John and Robin, at least until Mary Margaret could make it over to watch him - but she'd forgotten how entirely juvenile they were. Had forgotten that they were two bachelors, one of whom had, in recent weeks, gotten so drunk he didn't know the difference between his place and hers. So much for turning over a new leaf, she thinks.
He sighs, rakes a hand through his hair, looks frustrated with her.
"What did you need?" he asks again, and this time she lets out a heavy breath and finally answers him.
"I need to go into work for a little while, and the sitter can't make it to my place for an hour. I was going to ask if you guys could watch Henry until she gets here, but–"
"I can do that," he tells her easily, and Regina doesn't even fight the scoff. "I'm not high," he insists again, and then, "Regina, look at me. Do I look high?"
She frowns, looks him up and down. Studies his face.
He's bright-eyed, doesn't appear dulled in the least. And he's certainly not succumbed to the fit of snickering she can hear from inside.
He turns his head at the outburst of laughter, peeking inside, and then barks, "Oi! For Christ's sake, Will, quit blowing smoke at that poor dog."
Regina feels a lance of annoyance and sympathy race through her, mutters, "You have got to be kidding me." She raises her hands, surrender, defeat. "I don't know what I was thinking coming here. I'll just call my coworkers and tell them I won't be in until–" She glances at her watch, scowls, "10:00."
At this rate, she'll be there all night.
"Nonsense," Robin insists. "You'll be there all night at that rate. I can watch Henry - all evening if you need, it's no problem – at your place. He won't set foot in here, I swear it."
"Would you pass a drug test right now?" she questions. Robin inhales, his mouth pinching together, then exhales hard. Regina presses: "There is no way you don't at least have a contact high." Hell, even from the door she's starting to feel a little dizzy.
"You know what, Regina?" he gripes, "I probably wouldn't. You're right – I've been around it all night, but I've all my faculties. I'm not high. I can certainly take care of a ten-year-old for a few hours if you need help. And I owe you that, at least, after what I did."
"That was weeks ago." She straightens her shoulders, stands a little taller. "And I'd say the security system covered our debt."
"Alright, then do me a favor and give me a reason not to be here right now."
"That would be doing you a favor?" she questions. "I thought you were spending time with your 'mates.'"
"I am," he says, "But Marian texted twenty minutes ago and said she was considering letting me have Roland for the day tomorrow instead of sending him to daycare - since it's a Friday and all, and I'm supposed to have him overnight again anyway. I probably shouldn't be having a third beer and breathing in smoke for the rest of the night."
Regina arches one brow slowly. "You're going to want to Febreze the place."
"I can handle it."
Regina sighs, relents, because he does seem sincere and mostly sober. And because it really would be easier than making Mary Margaret drive halfway across town.
"At least change your clothes," she mutters. "And bring Tuck. The poor thing doesn't need to be subjected to-" she waves a vague hand toward the door behind him, "all of that."
Robin nods, tells her, "I'll be there in five minutes."
Regina leaves without another word, not entirely sure that she isn't making a terrible mistake.
.::.
It doesn't take Robin long to change - he strips out of his shirt and jeans, changes into clean ones and freshens his deodorant, spritzing himself with cologne and then spraying it directly into his palm and running his hand through his hair in an attempt to mask the smokey smell inevitably clinging to it.
He feels a bit like a teenage boy on a first date, overly perfumed, but it's better than having Henry wonder what that funny smell is. Bad enough that there's really not much he can do about the dog.
He leaves quickly, and tells the men that he'll be next door if he's needed, leading Tuck out on his leash and hoping his foray through the common area hasn't undone much of his attempts at freshening up.
He doesn't bring a coat, and regrets it for a moment as the night air makes him shiver. But then he's ringing her bell, and Henry is letting him in, all smiles, and the chill gets shut out as the door swings closed behind him.
Henry bends down to pet the dog as Regina approaches from the kitchen, already in her coat and tapping out a text message on her phone.
"Thank you for this," she mutters almost absently, but then she glances up and offers him a smile, and he thinks she might genuinely mean it.
"Anytime," he dismisses, coiling Tuck's now-freed leash around his hand and turning to drop it on the little table near the door just as Henry announces that Tuck smells funny. Robin and Regina lock gazes, hers stern and displeased, Robin's a bit guilty. Her brows lift expectantly, it's on him to explain, and he fumbles a bit, managing, "Yeah, he uh… he got into a bit of a run-in with a skunk at the park and we've had a hard time getting the smell out."
Henry pulls away from the dog, grimacing his disgust. "Ew."
"Yes," Regina confirms, biting down a smirk now. "Ew. So he is under no circumstances to be let up on the furniture, do you understand, young man?"
Henry nods, and so does Robin, and then Regina is rattling off instructions: "My cell number is on the fridge, and so is my office number and address, and the pediatrician's number, and if God forbid any sort of emergency happens-"
"Regina," he interrupts with a smirk. "I know how to take care of a child - I do have one of my own, if you'll recall."
She gives him a look, one that he's guessing translates roughly to 'one you're barely allowed to see,' and then she softens, and sighs, and nods.
"Bedtime is nine-thirty on school nights, so please have him there no later than ten, and he hasn't had dinner yet. There's food in the cupboards, but if you'd rather order in, there's forty dollars in a drawer in the kitchen - Henry knows which one." She switches her attention to her son and tells him, "Be good, finish all your homework, do not stay up too late, and do not let that dog on my furniture. If you do, Grandma will sense it from across town and call asking to come over for dinner tomorrow night."
Henry grins and snickers and nods, says, "I got it, Mom. Go to work. Robin and I will hold down the fort."
She mutters something that sounds an awful lot like That's what I'm afraid of, and then she leans in and presses a kiss to Henry's forehead, gives Robin a wave and disappears toward the back door.
As soon as the door shuts behind her, Henry turns to Robin with a grin and asks, "Pizza?"
.::.
Regina has never been great at group work.
She'd been raised to overachieve, raised to strive for perfection, so group projects always seemed like her doing all the work and everyone else taking all the credit. It's different at the Blanchard Group, but only marginally so. Nobody on this team is lazy – far from it – but group work still comes with its downsides, namely, an absolutely shitty group dynamic.
Why Leo felt the need to put Mal and Kathryn on any sort of team together, Regina simply cannot fathom, because their not-so-friendly rivalry leads to snippy backbiting on the best of days – and an unexpected Thursday evening at the office is definitely not the best of days.
Half an hour in, and Regina already has a headache.
Kathryn is in knots again, some sort of argument with David that has her chewing her thumbnail and distracted from the task at hand. And Regina understands Mal's ire, she really does – because she wants to get out of here as much as the next guy, wants as close as she can manage to a full night's sleep while still having a stellar presentation to deliver to the client in the morning, and having to repeat everything twice isn't going to help that any.
So when Sidney goes to meet the Chinese food delivery guy in the lobby, and Mal mutters, "I'm going out to the balcony for a smoke," and takes her leave as well, Regina turns to her friend with a no-nonsense expression.
"Either get it all out in the five minutes we have alone here, or find a way to put it out of your head until tomorrow," she tells Kathryn without preamble. "We need your head in the game here, Kathryn. If you're going to slow everything down, you might as well leave."
The blonde blinks, a little surprised by the sudden turn of the conversation, and then she nods, says, "Right. I'm sorry. I'm just… I don't think he's happy, Regina, and I can't figure out if it's me, or us, or him-"
"Can you solve it right now?"
"Right this minute now?"
"Yes, right this minute. Right now. In this room."
"No," Kathryn admits, running her pen through her fingers, and looking lost, discouraged. It's enough for Regina to soften just a little. "No, I can't solve it right now, this minute, in this room."
Regina covers Kathryn's hand with her own, gives it a little squeeze. "Then put it out of your mind. Let the work be a distraction, give it your total focus. David will still be there when you get home. But if Mal has to repeat something one more time, you might not be."
Kathryn scoffs at that, shakes her head with a dark little laugh. "She's such a bitch," she mutters. "I don't know how you two manage to get along."
"I'm a bitch, too," Regina reminds her. "And I'm not sure 'get along' is the term I'd use."
"She doesn't sharpen her claws every time you walk into the room," Kathryn points out, and Regina shrugs, says something about years of working together and Kathryn needing to thicken her skin.
"She doesn't have time for personal issues; she's here to make money," Regina reminds, lowering her voice as she spots Mal making her way back toward the conference room, Sidney not far behind and laden with take-out bags. "But she respects your work, if not your… everything else. Be sharp. Do your job. Don't try to be her friend."
"Not a problem," Kathryn mutters as their companions join them again, Mallory sliding back into her seat, Sidney beginning to unpack their dinner, popping open containers to reveal their contents.
"I have… sesame shrimp," he declares, sliding it over to Kathryn, "Ma po tofu," which goes to Mal, "And steamed chicken and broccoli, garlic sauce on the side, with brown rice instead of white."
He hands Regina her dinner with a smile before unearthing his own, and then there are chopsticks being passed around, napkins finding their way into eager hands, paper and plastic crinkling as Sidney balls up the delivery bag and tosses it toward the empty end of the table.
Despite her earlier indulgence, Regina is suddenly starving, suddenly famished, and for a few minutes all interpersonal conflict is forgotten as the four of them tuck into their dinners.
When conversation starts again, it's Kathryn, and it's all business.
.::.
Robin and Henry order that pizza (because who is he to deny a boy pizza, and it's easier than cooking something up anyway), half pepperoni, half cheese, and a bottle of Coke to go with it because Regina doesn't keep such things in the house. When it arrives, they eat in the kitchen like responsible people, a far cry from Robin's habit of eating on John's couch in front of the TV, and when Tuck begs and whines at their feet, Robin allows him only a few pieces of pepperoni instead of the usual torn-off chunks he'd throw at him.
"Pizza gives him gas," he tells Henry. "We let him have any more and he'll stink up the joint all night. Don't think your mum would appreciate that."
"Definitely not," Henry agrees, and they spend their mealtime chatting about this and that. Henry's a bright kid, smart and curious, and Robin has enjoyed what little bits of time they've spent together. Tonight is no different, and he finds he doesn't so much mind giving up his night with the boys in exchange for a few hours with a fourth-grader.
That is, until the conversation makes its way around to the first time they met. The night Robin broke in. How funny Henry thinks it is that it happened, and now Robin's here taking care of him.
"It seems your mum is the forgiving sort," Robin tells him with a smirk, and Henry nods, tells him, Sometimes.
"So do you get drunk like that a lot?" Henry asks, and Robin nearly chokes on his bite of pizza, coughing lightly and swallowing hard. Apparently bluntness runs in the Mills family.
When he recovers, he mutters, "You're certainly your mother's child, aren't you?"
Henry simply shrugs, takes another bite of his pizza, and waits expectantly for an answer. Robin has little choice but to give him one, he supposes.
"No," he says, "I don't. I'd just had a particularly bad day."
Henry looks at him, serious and attempting to be wise. "Drinking isn't the answer, you know."
Robin chuckles. "I think I learned that lesson quite well."
"Shouldn't you know that already?" the boys asks, before pointing out the obvious: "You're a grown-up."
"Yes. I should," Robin agrees, because drinking the better part of a bottle of whiskey is unwise at any age, but certainly something one should outgrow by the cusp of thirty. "I'm afraid I'm not very good at being a grown-up lately."
"Is that why Roland's mom is mad at you?" Henry asks, and Robin wonders just what exactly Regina has told the boy when he's not around. He frowns, looks at Henry, and the boy adds, "I saw you guys at the park. You were mad when you came to get Roland, and when you were talking to my mom afterward. You didn't want him to go."
"No, I didn't," he says quietly, eyeing the pizza box now and wondering if he should have yet another piece, or if they should save some for Regina. But then, maybe they're eating at work?
"So she's mad at you," Henry deduces. "That's why you live with John."
"It is." And because he is the adult and ought to be controlling the narrative here, Robin continues, takes the conversation by the horns: "I did something that was very hurtful to her, and she doesn't seem to be able to forgive me. So now I live with John, and we're raising Roland apart."
Henry frowns at that, asking, "Do you want to get her back?"
It's getting easier and easier for Robin to admit, "No. I think our time was just about up anyway. But it's still hard – especially when kids are involved. Parents always want our children to see the best in us. It's not easy when things go wrong, or when we're angry or feel weak, or sad, or scared."
The boy's head bobs slowly, agreeing more than absorbing. He knows this already, it seems. "Mom gets upset sometimes. Sad and stuff. And she always tries to act like she's not. like everything's okay. She smiles a lot, and runs a lot, and stuff like that. But she's not all that good at hiding it."
"She wants to be strong for you," Robin reasons, certain he's right even if he doesn't know Regina all that well. "I imagine it's difficult, having to be both mum and dad. A lot of pressure to be everything you need all by herself."
"She's good at it, though," Henry says with a proud smile that Robin can't help but return.
"That she is."
Tuck chooses that moment to attempt to jump up onto the living room sofa, apparently having given up on getting more scraps from the table, and it has Robin scrambling into the living room to chase him down from the cushions.
The conversation shifts then, particularly after Robin catches sight of the clock and grimaces. It's well after nine already, the boy's due in bed soon. He sends him upstairs to change his clothes and brush his teeth, asks if he's finished everything he needs to for the morning, or if he needs help (hopes he won't need help). Henry tells him Regina usually checks over his homework, that he'll bring it down. Lovely, that.
While he waits, he pokes around the living room, straightening this and that, eventually ending up at the piano. There are books on it now, he notices. New ones. Spines that haven't creased yet, and pages that still want to close on their own. One of the books is clearly geared a bit more toward kids, filled with songs from animated movies, and it's that one that Robin is thumbing through when Henry comes back down the stairs, dressed for bed and with papers in hand.
He pauses, tilts his head and asks Robin, "Do you play piano, too? You were sitting there with my mom that one time."
"I do not," Robin tells him. "At least, not terribly well." He holds up the book, and asks, "Are you learning?"
Henry's face falls a little, and he shakes his head. "No… I think Mom wants me to, but…" He trails off then, the papers in his hand shuffling a little bit as he adjusts his hold on them.
"But?" Robin coaxes, setting the book back on the piano and giving Henry his full attention.
"I don't really like the piano," he admits. "It seems kinda… boring? And Grandma always says stuff about it when she's here, and makes Mom feel bad. She makes her feel bad about a lot of things, and… I don't know if Mom really likes the piano or if she just feels like she has to because Grandma always talks about how much they paid for her lessons, and how good she used to be, and how she's wasting all of that and letting the piano gather dust."
Robin's not quite sure how to respond to that. There's a part of him that aches over it, for her sake, and a part of him that mutters smugly he's glad he ripped off that old bat, it seems she deserved it. But he's not glad of it, not really, not after everything, and as he looks at Henry, he tries to think of the right thing to say. He wonders if Regina knows where the boy's reluctance actually comes from.
He settles on, "She likes it. She might not have always, but she likes it. I imagine she wouldn't have bought these new books if she didn't think she'd play."
"She's been playing a lot," Henry admits, and for some reason it sends a little thrill through Robin. "She comes down after I go to bed a lot of the time, and I can hear it."
"She's quite good," Robin says, remembering the way Regina's fingers had moved over the keys.
"Yeah. But it seems like a lot of work."
"Most things worth doing are," Robin tells Henry with a shrug, adding, "It took years for me to get good at the guitar. Lots of practice, and lots of hard work. Sore fingers, and the like."
"You play guitar?" Henry asks, perking up noticeably. Robin tells him that he does, and Henry declares, "That's way better than the piano."
Robin chuckles, and nods, jokes with him, "Gets you a lot more attention from the ladies," and earns himself a grimace.
"Maybe not, then."
Another laugh, and Robin says, "It's great fun to learn. I could sit you down right now and teach you what you'd need to know to play a song. Perhaps not very well, but you could play it."
"Could you?" Henry asks, eyes going wide, and, well, Robin hadn't meant that he literally could right this very second, it had been more of a figurative "right now," but… He looks at the clock again. It's nearing ten.
"Y'know…" Henry starts, clearly noticing Robin's gaze. "My mom won't know if I stay up a little bit past my bedtime. And I won't be that tired tomorrow - I stay up reading sometimes after bedtime, and I'm just fine at school."
Robin knows bargaining when he hears it, and he has to give the kid some credit for effort. And he's right, Regina's not likely to know, unless she comes home early and catches them still up, but somehow he doubts he'll see her before midnight. Maybe he could spare a little bit of time? Henry doesn't seem the least bit tired anyway, and it's been a long time since he's had a chance to show someone how to play.
Of course, he'd need a guitar, and at present, he doesn't own one.
That's a bit of a deal-breaker.
Then again… "Alright," he gives in. "Half an hour, and then to bed with you - I think one of my mates has his guitar with him, I just need to pop back over and borrow it. Leave your papers on the table and I'll give them a look afterward."
"Yes!" Henry exclaims, victorious, bounding off toward the kitchen with his schoolwork while Robin heads for the door and prays Regina hasn't miraculously finished work already.
.::.
She hasn't. Not even close.
She's sitting in the same chair at the same conference table, nursing a more mature version of the same headache as they throw idea after idea onto a whiteboard and hope one of them will turn out to be a brilliant breakthrough that allows them to finally head home.
Time ticks by, it's late, later, almost eleven now, and she's still here, graciously taking the extra coffee Sidney returns with when he makes a pit stop to the kitchen on his way back from a bathroom break. Black, and strong, with a splash of half and half. Something to jolt her rapidly tiring brain back to attention.
"Hey Romeo," Mal drawls, letting her chair swing back and forth slightly, her feet propped on the one next to it, spike heels off now, leaving her stocking-clad toes free to stretch. "If you could 'just happen' to pour a third cup of coffee the next time you go to the kitchen, that'd be nice. Regina's not the only one who's tired here. I left what could have been a very mediocre date leading to very great sex for this."
"Seriously," Kathryn mutters quietly, a show of actual solidarity between the two of them, and now Regina knows it's getting late and they're all getting tired, because who would have expected that?
"I only have two hands," Sidney points out, setting his own coffee on the table and stepping back up to the whiteboard. "But there's more in the pot if you'd like it."
Mallory rolls her eyes, and huffs, drawing her feet back and down to the floor again as she sits up and looks to Kathryn. "You want one, Goldilocks? As long as I'm going."
Did she fall asleep at the table? Regina wonders. Is she dreaming?
Kathryn looks as startled as Regina feels, but she recovers quickly, and says, "Yes, please. With soy milk."
Mal's "Ugh" in response is disgusted enough that Regina is sure she's awake after all. That's more like it. "I don't know how you drink that crap. It tastes like dish soap," she grumbles, standing and not bothering to replace her shoes as she saunters out of the conference room.
"Wow," Kathryn says, lifting her brows. "For a whole five seconds there, she managed to be a decent human being."
"Shall we continue without her?" Sidney suggests, and Regina takes another deep swallow of her coffee.
It's going to be a long night.
.::.
Henry, it turns out, is a a quick study at the guitar. Robin wasn't absolutely positive how much he could teach the boy in half an hour, but he'd managed to give him a rudimentary understanding of how everything worked, and teach him how to play an E chord and an A. Enough to sketch out a bit of the Beatles' "Love Me Do."
Henry's hands weren't quite strong enough to avoid muted strings, and his sense of rhythm wasn't awful but wasn't perfect either. Still, he'd picked up the basic ideas quickly, and he'd had so much fun that their thirty minutes had bled quickly into forty. The boy's fingertips had been dented from the effort of pushing down on the strings of Will's guitar by the time Robin had insisted he see himself to bed, and he'd hoped and prayed that the excitement practically coming off Henry in waves wouldn't keep him from falling asleep quickly. Robin was already feeling guilty about the blatant violation of bedtime he'd allowed.
And then the house had been quiet.
Very quiet.
Just Robin and the dog, and the latter had fallen asleep on the living room rug a few minutes ago. So now just Robin and a guitar itching to be played - something he hasn't had much chance or opportunity to do in quite some time.
He picks up the guitar, removes the capo and lets his fingers pick and strum. His own calluses aren't what they used to be, not after months without playing (a realization that causes a sharp pang in his gut), but the muscle memory is still strong. He plays his way through one familiar song, and then another, humming softly to melodies of his own creation. Songs he used to play when making music was his job instead of pouring drinks or hooking up overpriced electronics for people who made more in a week than he did all month.
The realization has him feeling bitter and parched, dried up, despondent. A feeling that gets no better as it occurs to him that the song he's singing under his breath is one he'd written for Marian years ago. Back when he'd thought his life might turn out quite a bit more charmed than it has. He lets his fingers fall across the strings, one last heavy strum, then he sets the guitar aside, texts Will to come grab it so he doesn't have to leave the house again while Henry's supposed to be asleep.
But when it's gone, he's left once again without distractions. A quiet house with a snoozing dog and slumbering child, just past midnight and still not a word from Regina.
He doesn't mind staying late, even if it means he'll be a bit knackered for Roland in the morning. He's survived worse than a tired day of parenting. But he's loathe to just sit around and do nothing, so he heads to the kitchen, cleans up the remnants of their dinner, tossing their pizza box and clearing the dishes, leaving the place as spotless as he can so Regina doesn't come back to a messy home after a long day.
He thinks to check on Henry's homework, but it's maths and he finds he hasn't a bloody clue how they're teaching it these days, and it's not really his place anyway, is it? So he leaves it for Regina, sets it out neatly on the kitchen table where she can't miss it in the morning.
And when he's nothing left to do, he wanders back into the living room, picking up the book she'd left sitting on the side table there and starting at the beginning, set to find out just what secret lives the bees were living.
.::.
It's nearing three AM when Regina finally trudges through the door, and the only reason she's home at all is because Henry needs to be at school in the morning. The others are still at the office, still finishing up, will take time to run home and change and shower perhaps, but not much more than that. But Regina is a mother, and so Regina needs to make breakfast, and check homework, and chauffeur her son to the private school that doesn't bus him.
So she's home, walks into her house and moves on instinct to the security system, but it's off. Robin and Henry never alarmed it, she realizes with a roll of her eyes, but then who would break in when the lights are still on? When someone is clearly home and awake?
And then Tuck trots in from the living room, and she remembers that they have a guard dog of sorts tonight, too, so why bother?
"Hi, buddy," she murmurs softly to him, crouching down and giving him a little scratch before wrinkling her nose and declaring, "You still stink."
Tuck wags his tail, noses against her arm affectionately, and it's not until then that Regina realizes she hasn't heard so much as a peep out of Robin. The living room lights are on, but the rest of the house is dark, and she stands, frowning and stepping into the other room.
There she finds Robin on the sofa, sound asleep, one of her books resting on his shoulder as if it had fallen there from lax fingers. She has a moment of memory, of him sprawled in that very spot, reeking of booze and snoring loudly enough to wake the dead (or at least her ten-year-old) while she readied herself to bean him with a baseball bat if necessary.
And now he's babysitting for her (and not snoring, she notices). Oh, what a difference a month makes.
Or maybe she's just gone crazy.
But the house isn't in disarray, and while it's not ideal for a sitter to fall asleep on the job, she can't really blame him considering the late hour. There's a half-drunk cup of soda on the coffee table - dutifully placed on a coaster, and she picks it up gingerly, quietly, keeping her steps light as she carries it through to the kitchen and turns on the light there.
There are worksheets on the coffee table - Henry's homework, she realizes, done and waiting for her. And his reading chart with the date checked off and initialed RL. One less thing she has to take care of in the morning, she thinks as she dumps what's left of Robin's Coke and moves to put the cup in the dishwasher. When she finds it empty, she blinks, stares. It had been half-full when she left, had still needed to be run. Did he do the dishes?
Yes, she realizes, opening the cupboards and finding her favorite mug put away on the wrong shelf, the glassware not exactly arranged the way she likes. He'd run the machine, and unloaded, and the kitchen looks as though it hasn't been touched all night, every surface free of crumbs, the sink empty of dishes. Well. Not so crazy after all, it seems. The man knows how to keep house.
Who'd have imagined?
Or maybe he's just sucking up.
God, she's tired.
No, she's exhausted, her eyes like sandpaper and her limbs like lead (but also oddly like barely attached balloons), unused to all-nighters. A glance at the clock on the stove has her doing mental math (not an easy feat at this late hour). She can catch maybe three hours of rest if she falls asleep immediately, but there's no guarantee of that, even as tired as she is. And Regina knows enough about sleep cycles to know that if she isn't going to be able to manage that full three hours, she's better off just taking a nap. An hour, tops. Just enough to recharge her batteries to the point where she can make it through the day.
So she leaves Robin on the couch, undisturbed (throws a blanket over him, and eases that book away from his body, telling herself it's the mom in her that has her doing it, not any sort of concern for the way his arms are crossed tightly over his chest, his side wedged tightly into the back of the sofa for warmth), and trudges up the stairs, does the bare minimum to get ready for bed (a makeup remover cloth from her travel bag to strip away her stale makeup and cleanse her skin, and a swish of mouthwash instead of brushing her teeth - she'll be up again to brush them in an hour anyway), then changes into an oversized, threadbare t-shirt that had once smelled of Daniel and now smells of Downy and perfume, and collapses onto the bed, her alarm set for 4:30 precisely.
She falls asleep in minutes.
