"You're home early," John comments as Robin walks in the door, clutching the dinner she still packed him for reasons unknown. He gets paid now, she doesn't need to offset, but he thinks maybe she likes cooking for him – no, just cooking. Not for him, there isn't a "for him" anymore, he'd seen to that, and stomped on her heart to do so. Robin feels another sharp flare of guilt, grips the Tupperware more tightly as if it's somehow holding on to a last, kind piece of her.
"Yeah," he tells his roommate, walking right past him into the kitchen to get a fork without any more explanation than that.
He comes back and settles onto the old, worn leather couch, popping the top off his dinner and stabbing a piece of rotini with his fork rather harder than might have been necessary.
"You gonna tell me what's wrong, or just keep sulking like you have been all week?"
Robin glances up to find John looking over at him from the other side of the couch. Expectantly.
"It's nothing," he mutters, taking a bite. It's delicious, as always. Everything she cooks is delicious. He misses her, and it's only been a week. He's a bloody fool, should have stayed away to begin with. He's the one who got them into this mess, and now she's the one hurting for it. (Him, too, but he deserves it. He brought this all down on himself. Regina, though, Regina is innocent.)
"You piss her off?"
"Who?"
"Regina."
Robin just scowls harder, shoves more pasta into his mouth.
"Did she fire you?"
"No, she did not–" Robin begins as soon as he's swallowed, voice laced heavily with annoyance. Then, he heaves a sigh and shakes his head. "She didn't do this, I did."
"What kind of 'this' are we talking about?" John asks, taking a sip from the beer he's been nursing, a plate on the table in front of him, empty now save a smear of ketchup and some crumbs.
"I…" Robin stares down at the noodles and veg in his palm, a few chunks of grilled chicken breast nestled amongst the peas and peppers. "I made her think I don't want to be with her."
For a second, it's all silence, and then John says, a bit thrown, "Oh. I wondered about that - the two of you. You've been spending a lot of time over there." Robin grunts, takes another bite. "Do you? Want to be with her?"
Robin pulls a face, tossing his barely-touched dinner to the coffee table as he bites, "Oh, not at all, I've been moping around the place for a week because I'm so thrilled to bits to not be with Regina."
John holds up his hands innocently (one still clutching his longneck), and then asks, "If you want her so much, then what's the problem? Whatever dumbass thing you did to make her think you're not interested, go fix it."
John takes another pull on his beer as Robin mutters, "I can't."
"Why not?"
"It's complicated."
"I believe in you," John jokes at him, before the last of the beer goes down the hatch with a steep pour. Then John sets the bottle next to his plate, settling back and reasoning, "You used to charm the pants off girls all the time, and I know Regina's no blushing groupie, but you'd think you could at least get yourself out of the doghouse. Buy her flowers or something."
If only it were that simple. Robin would kill for this to just be a case of his usual foot-in-mouth disease, just some stupid thing he'd done and could make up for. But this is… a mess. It's a bloody sodding mess, as it's always been, and for the last few days now he's felt every bit as much of a worthless git as he had when he'd woken up piss drunk on her couch all those months ago.
He stares at the pasta on the table, well aware that John is awaiting some sort of response from him. He's not looking at him, is watching the crime show on the TV in front of them, but Robin knows his mate well enough to know he's not really paying attention. He's waiting Robin out. But what can Robin even say? The truth?
Sod it all. Maybe it's time to come clean to someone.
"Those people I robbed before Christmas, they were Regina's parents."
Robin's heart begins to beat hard, fast. He hasn't told anyone who he'd stolen from, not even John. He'd told him only that it was someone he'd done a job for. This is the first time he's confessed the victims of his crime out loud, and it has blood rushing in his ears.
John mutes the TV, and when Robin hazards a glance his way, the man's brows are nearly up to his wild hairline, his eyes like saucers.
"Shit, Robin, does she know?"
"Of course she doesn't," Robin sighs, collapsing back into the sofa cushions and rubbing thumb and forefinger along his brow, squeezing his skull at the temples.
"What the fuck are you doing over at her house every week?"
"Teaching her son the bloody guitar! What the hell do you think I'm doing? Casing the joint?"
"That's not what I meant," John defends. "I mean you're a damn idiot for spending all that time with someone whose family could put you in jail. And now you fell for her? What were you thinking?"
"Pretty much exactly what you just said, every damn time I see her," Robin admits, reaching for the pasta again even though his appetite is now next to nothing. "That I should keep away from her, that it doesn't matter how incredibly hot she is, or how smart, or sharp-tongued, or how much I want to… That I'll hurt her, and I should back off."
"And yet you stayed for dinner every week," John points out.
Robin has no good answer for that, so he takes another bite. A big one, as much as he can fit on the fork.
"Are you going to tell her?" John asks, and Robin slides his gaze over again. How can he? What if it goes incredibly poorly? What if he loses his son? He doesn't have to say anything, John can see it all on his face. He must do, because he sighs and shakes his head, and says, "Man, you either have to fess up, or stop going over there. I've known you for a long time, and you've got that look. The one you get when you're already gone about a girl. If you keep seeing her, all you'll do is hurt her."
"I already have," Robin tells him quietly.
"Well, then by all means, keep it up," John tells him, his words dry and insincere.
Robin eats the rest of his dinner in silence, and wonders if he can stomach letting Henry down, too.
.::.
"Why didn't Robin stay for dinner?" Henry asks as Regina is clearing their plates, picking off the last few pieces of pasta salad from Henry's (he'd declared himself full near the end of helping number two) and popping them in her mouth.
"Hmm?"
"Robin. He usually has dinner with us."
Yes, yes he does, she thinks. And what a mistake that had been. She gives their plates a rinse as Henry waits for her answer.
She supposes she should have thought of this, should have known Henry would ask, but she'd been too busy nursing her own feelings of rejection to consider what her son would think. So she grasps for a way to excuse the man's absence, and comes up with only a dumb, "Oh, he had to… He had to go."
Henry narrows his eyes. Her son is not stupid; he knows when something is up.
"Did something happen between you two?"
Regina scoffs slightly, shakes her head, slides the plates into the dishwasher. "What could possibly have happened between me and Robin?"
"You like each other."
Regina shakes her head, bending under the sink to grab a detergent packet from the bag down there and pop it into the washer as she says, "If by that you mean that we're cordial and neighborly–"
Now it's Henry scoffing, a perfect imitation of her own, and shaking his head. "No, you like each other. I can tell."
She closes the washer, pushes the button to start it and turns to face her son.
Her brows lift doubtfully, and Regina tries to push down on the ache in her chest at how true his words are – at least from her side of the equation anyway. Clearly not from Robin's. "Really?" she questions dryly.
"Yep," he tells her, and then with all the confidence in the world, "I see the way you look at each other. And you don't look at John like that."
"Henry," she says, turning away again and reaching for a dishtowel to wipe down the perfectly clean countertop. "You're wrong."
"Nope. I'm not," he declares smugly, but he leaves her alone anyway. She hears his footfalls up the stairs a minute later.
Regina sags against the countertop and lets her carefully controlled expression melt away. How in the world did she get so turned around about Robin Locksley?
She tells herself she's being ridiculous, that nothing even happened between them, and she has no reason to feel this… hurt over the whole thing. But rejection is rejection, even as subtle as it might have been, and Regina feels the burn of it acutely.
.::.
"I've gotta hand it to you, Robin. This summer concert series was a great idea."
Robin glances over at August from his place at the tap and smiles. At least one thing in his life is working out at the moment. Wednesdays have always been a bit of a lull, so Robin had suggested recently (at the gentle prodding of Will) that perhaps they could add live music to the night, feature some local bands. He had contacts, after all, could easily line up a few weeks worth of performances.
August had agreed to try it out, and now here they are. The Rabbit Hole is packed, and Robin has been pouring a steady stream of drinks, raking in a pretty pile of tips. And he gets to hear his mates play without having to drag himself out to a bar and pay some sort of cover charge or drink minimum, or give up a night he might rather spend alone on the couch – everybody wins.
"I'm glad it's worked out," he tells his boss. "Both for us and for Sherwood." He jerks his head toward the band presently onstage, Will's band, who are introducing the next song of their set.
"The customers like them," August says with an easy smile, stepping up to pull a beer as Robin sets about mixing a Long Island Iced Tea. It's a comfortable sort of routine - working the bar with August on the busier nights – and Robin has found he likes bartending more than most of the other odd jobs he's kept over the years. It suits him.
"...And as a thank-you for gettin' us this sweet gig, I'd like to call an old mate up to the mic to give us a hand with a number or two."
Robin freezes. Oh. Oh, no.
He glances up to find Will looking straight at him, lifting a hand and beckoning him as he asks, "Mind if I borrow your bartender for a tune, Mr. Booth?"
Robin glances at August, not sure if he wants to be saved or permitted, and finds the other man looking toward him, brows raised in interest, grinning. "By all means," he tells Robin. "I'll cover the bar."
.::.
Regina is tired of running. She's run every night for nearly the last two weeks, and it usually helps sort her mind, but tonight… well, tonight she's tired. Tired, and… quiet. She feels like quiet, and running is loud, running is headphones pumped up with a steady beat to keep her feet hitting the belt again, again, again, and she wants… peace. So tonight, she's sent Henry off to bed with a kiss and a smile, and settled onto the piano bench, bared the keys.
For a while, she just tinkers. Doesn't really play anything, just fiddles with the notes, picks out the melody of the song Henry had been practicing earlier. Settling in, mulling over what to play. She melts into some Chopin, something she's known by heart for a very long time, but bails out in the middle. And then a few chords, the beginning of something familiar, "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay." She's a good way through the first verse, singing along softly before she remembers the last time she'd played this. Here. With Robin. That first night he'd come over all those months ago.
If you'd told her then that the memory of that night would have her aching, have her feeling foolish and overly attached, she'd have laughed in your face. But here she is, letting her fingers crash against the keys in a discordant mess of sound as she abandons that song, too.
She needs something else to play. Something untouched by a certain attractive British guitar playing bartender.
.::.
Robin hesitates. Is this really happening?
"Come on now, mate, don't be shy," Will encourages. "I know it's been a while, but I don't think you've forgotten how to strum a guitar." Before Robin has a chance to decide yes or no, Will's gaze is sweeping the rest of the room, and he's urging, "You lot all want to hear your bartender sing a song or two, don't you?"
The response is surprisingly positive, particularly from the regulars at tables five and six, a bunch of women who've been coming for Thirsty Thursdays for ages and have embraced the live music with a good bit of enthusiasm.
Will tuts and shakes his head, sighing dramatically. "Always popular with the ladies, this one," he grumbles good-naturedly, laughing when there's a distinctly masculine whoop from the back of the bar in response. "Ah, and the gentlemen, it seems! You've your pick now, Robin, don't keep them all waiting."
There are far too many people eyeing him now, patrons smirking, grinning, watching expectantly. He supposes he has no choice at this point. It's chicken out, or sack up.
Robin tosses away the towel he'd picked up in an attempt to look busy, and takes a deep breath, heading for the end of the bar and hoping Will has something in mind that he knows.
As Robin makes his way to the little platform stage the band's set up on, Will drums up the crowd a bit, whistling and clapping himself until they're all making a good racket. Robin steps up onto the stage and gestures for everyone to settle down, leaning into the mic and urging, "Alright, alright, let's not all get too excited. You've not heard me sing yet. Might be about to change your tune."
Alan passes him a guitar, stepping off the stage for a piss or a drink, who knows. Robin doesn't have much time to wonder about it as he slings the guitar over his shoulder, palms a little damp with nerves over performing again after so long.
"So, what'll it be then, Will?"
.::.
She settles on Once, if for no other reason than that the songbook is still sitting on the piano, propped open. Henry has been trying to learn the songs in between what he's been learning from Robin. Some of the chords are a bit above his level, but Robin has taught him how to read chord diagrams, so he tries nonetheless, frowning and placing his fingers in on the right strings, his tongue between his teeth as he concentrates.
She likes watching him, her boy, likes watching him try, watching him rock out as best a ten-year-old novice can. And secretly, she hopes one day she and Henry can play a little something together, so she doesn't discourage his attempts at the Once songbook - after all, most of it is for guitar and piano, and, well, isn't that just perfect? In fact, she's spent a decent amount of time with the book herself, late at night like this, learning the songs. Just in case.
He's left the book open to somewhere in the middle, and Regina thumbs back a few pages, back to the song she knows best.
She presses against the keys gently, slowly, picking out the first notes of the song, and she knows as she begins to sing softly that this isn't going to help any with the funk she's been stuck in for the last couple of weeks.
I don't know you but I want you
All the more for that
Words fall through me and always fool me
And I can't react
And games that never amount to more than they're meant
Will play themselves out
.::.
Will suggests a cover - and he can work with that, but which?
"This one used to be in your set, if I recall," Will says, beginning to play, and Robin recognizes the chords immediately.
Marian had loved the movie, had watched it maybe a hundred times. Had said it reminded her of him, the brooding musician who found himself again through a girl and a song. He'd never really understood the correlation - he'd been in relatively good spirits when he'd met Marian, but perhaps she'd known something he hadn't, because it hits him hard now.
He joins in, and Will melts out, leaving Robin to start the song alone, just himself, a borrowed guitar, and a song from Once.
He clears his throat, hopes his voice is in decent shape after speaking up over the band all night.
"This one's called 'Say it to Me Now,'" he says into the mic over the intro, "Some of you may know it, if you've any good taste in films."
And then he sings.
Scratching at the surface now
And I'm trying hard to work it out
So much has gone misunderstood
And this mystery only leads to doubt
And I'm looking for a sign
In this dark uneasy time
And if you have something to say
You'd better say it now
.::.
It definitely isn't helping, Regina thinks, past the first chorus now and feeling herself settle into a good wallow. She doesn't know why she feels like this, she has no right to. He didn't break her heart - she'd never given it to him in the first place. It had been a few dinners, a few weeks of good conversation, some easy smiles and what she thought was flirtation. Nothing more, and frankly, that's not much.
Well, you have suffered enough
And warred with yourself
It's time that you won
For a moment she pauses, breathless, losing her place as she hears the words slip off her tongue. It sounds like him, and her, like that night in the kitchen after Mother's Day, and it wasn't nothing. It wasn't 'not much.'
That was connection, it was… intimacy, it was… the closest she's been to any other person in years, the rawest she's been, the most laid-bare. And she thought he'd been there with her, had thought there had been something blossoming between them. (She remembers the scratch of his beard against her hair, the warm cotton of his shirt against her cheek, his hands smoothing gently over her, and all of it makes her stomach hurt.)
She thought it had meant even a fraction as much to him as it had to her, but she'd been wrong. Wrong and stupid and reading far too much into what was clearly, in retrospect, just an act of friendship. Just one person being kind to another in their moment of need. Nothing more.
And then she'd gone and let herself get all moony-eyed over him, had nearly kissed him, for God's sake, and had, of course, sent him running for the hills.
She's embarrassed, more embarrassed than she had been when she was weeping over her mother – or maybe that's what she's so embarrassed about, after all. He'd seen her naked, so terribly, vulnerably naked. Had seen right down to the battered heart of her. And walked away.
And now whenever she sees him, she remembers that feeling. That moment, that openness, that comfort, and she yearns.
Her eyes are suddenly wet, her throat thick as she moves her fingers over the keys again.
.::.
Robin shuts his eyes and lets the moment take him. Puts aside the clink of glasses and the low murmurs of conversation, muscle memory carrying him through, his hands moving without thought, lyrics tugging their way out from somewhere in the back of his brain. And it's a good thing, too, because the rest of it is full of her.
Nothing new, that, but he feels her in this moment. Feels like he's singing to himself and not a room full of people.
'Cause this is what you've waited for
Your chance to even up the score
And as these shadows fall on me now
I will somehow, yeah
He wants her, wants her so desperately, wants to ease her hurt and hold her hand and see her smile, listen to the warmth of her voice, her laugh. But he knows, deep down, down to his core, that he is no good for her. That he could only hurt her – already has, more even than she knows.
'Cause I'm picking up a message, Lord
And I'm closer than I've ever been before
So if you have something to say
Say it to me now
John is right, and he knows that. Knows he needs to either shit or get off the pot. To tell her his whole truth, or say nothing and keep away from her.
Trouble is, neither option sounds like something he can stomach.
.::.
Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice
You have a choice
You've made it now
A tear escapes and slips down her cheek, the melody gapping as she lifts a hand to brush it away, feeling suddenly terribly lonely.
That's what she's been feeling–not heartbreak, but some sort of yawning empty space where his companionship had been.
She just… misses him. The ease of things, the friendship. She's blown a hole in them and now things are just…. wrong.
She's such an idiot, such a fool.
And she cannot stop thinking about him.
.::.
"You know," August begins, as Robin takes his place behind the bar again, the whistling and applause that followed his turn at mic resurfacing for a moment as Will says something about giving another round for the barman. "You never told me you play.
"It's been a while," Robin says, and then, "I teach the neighbor's kid one night a week, but other than that… It's been a long while now since I've played for anyone other than my kid or the dog. Until tonight, anyway."
"Would you like to?" the other man offers, and Robin stills.
"Would I like to what?"
"Play," August answers. "You're good. Really good. I could throw you in on a Wednesday sometime. I'm sure our regulars would love another shot at hearing you play – I could probably even talk Ruby into coming back to cover for you. You know how she likes foreign guys with guitars."
Robin chuckles, takes a few empties that have just been deposited on the bar in front of him, his mind traveling a mile a minute at August's offer. "So she's said," he mutters, and then, "You'd really want me to play? Here?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"I just… it's been a while," he murmurs, thinking of the last time he'd really played, the last tense days of a fizzling band, the frustration, the tension. The actual people sitting in a dark, dingy bar listening to them play, moving to the music. The connection. A deep-down part of him aches at the memories, and he can't deny he felt a little zing of the old satisfaction as he took the stage with Will.
"About three minutes by my count."
Robin chuckles, pointing out, "That was one song. With a backing band."
That redhead that's been frequenting chooses that moment to sidle up to the bar, ordering two redheaded sluts with a wink for Robin. He gives her a sly, teasing look before he tells her, "Coming momentarily," earning a short, sharp laugh, and an After seeing you with a guitar, darling, me too. He's the one chuckling now, and he only charges her for one. She leaves him a tip generous enough that she could have paid for the second, and he takes the bills with a flash of dimples, and a "Thanks, babe," then glances back at August to find him busy with customers at the other end of the bar.
Could he do it? he wonders. Play again, for real. Do a solo gig. It should be the goal, he thinks. It's what he's always wanted to do, what he'd long thought of himself as - a musician. But lately, the last few months, nearly the last year now, he's been something else. An electronics installation specialist, a thief, a freeloader, a screw-up. To tell the truth, it's been quite a while since Robin saw himself as a musician first and foremost. But he can't deny that he looks forward to Monday nights, and not just for Regina (guilt throbs again in his chest at just the thought of her name, her smile, her eyes, her mouth, her–stop it, Robin) or a home-cooked meal. He likes playing, really truly enjoys teaching. Friday through Monday, that's when he feels most whole. Roland, and music (don't think about Regina).
So yes, perhaps he should, perhaps he ought to. And it's just one night, from the sound of it. Just a couple of sets. Just enough to dip his toes back in.
Of course, there's the matter of him having nothing really to play. He'd have to go back through his repertoire and choose songs, tweak them so they'll sound proper acoustic and solo instead of with drums and bass and backup vocals. But he could do that, that would only be a bit of work, a few nights, he could–
"I can see I've gotten you thinking," August smirks from far closer than he was the last time Robin took note of him. "You can practically see the wheels spinning in your head."
Robin jerks a shoulder and scratches at the back of his neck, admitting, "I'm not used to going solo, but I could probably throw something together. I'd need a little bit of time."
August waves a hand at him, says, "Of course, no rush. We're booked a few weeks out at this point anyway. Just let me know when you're ready."
When he's ready. That's the question, isn't it?
What is he ready for?
.::.
There are daisies on her desk on Thursday morning, hot pink and summery, in a glass vase planted firmly in front of her computer monitor. The sight of them has her insides rioting, torn between anticipation and dread, confusion, heartache. Her first thought is Robin, but that's silly, pathetic. Second thought is her father – it's probably him, probably Daddy. He does this every once in a while, surprises her with a little bouquet. But when she plucks the card from between the stems, it's not from her father at all.
In fact, it's not from a florist – the card is hand-written, not printed.
"For you. – S"
These flowers were hand-delivered. She knows the handwriting, has seen it scrawled on countless meeting notes and Post-Its. Sidney.
She smiles a little despite herself. Robin may not be interested in her, but she'll always have Sidney to boost her confidence.
Still, she takes the card and walks the short distance to his office, knocking lightly on the door as she pokes her head in. He looks up from his computer and smiles, turning his chair away from his work and toward her. "Regina, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Don't play coy," she scolds mildly, smiling bewilderedly and holding up the card. "Flowers?"
"Guilty as charged," he tells her with a little shrug.
"Why?"
"You've seemed a bit down the last few days," he tells her, and oh, God, has she? She's been doubling down into her work, trying to use it as a distraction from her aching heart, but perhaps she's been more transparent than she thought. Although, this is Sidney – he's always looking too hard, always noticing things other people don't. "I thought maybe they'd make you smile."
"Oh," she says simply, touched. "They did. Thank you."
Sidney's smile warms, and he leans back in his chair, gestures to the empty seat nearby and offers, "Do you want to talk about it?"
Oh, boy, does she not. Certainly not with Sidney of all people. Somehow crying to the man who's in love with her about the man she has feelings for seems terribly unwise. And she likes to keep Sidney at a little bit of a distance, anyway. It's safer that way – smarter all around not to lead him on.
So she shakes her head, tells him, "No, I'm fine. Just a long week, that's all."
Disappointment flickers across his face before he can hide it – just a moment of it, you could blink and miss it. And then he's telling her, "If you change your mind, you know where to find me."
"I do." She taps the card against her fingertips and confirms, "We have that call with TLK at 10:30?"
"On the dot."
"Great. Thank you again." She wiggles the little card at him, then tucks it into her pocket as she turns to go.
When she gets back to her office, she clears a space for the flowers on her desk, somewhere she can see them out of the corner of her eye while she works. The little shock of pink lingers there, catching her attention from time to time, and she is equally warmed by the kind gesture and barbed by the ever-present reminder that they're a gift from the wrong man.
.::.
Regina likes dirt. Or more accurately, soil. She likes it soft and dark and sticking to her fingers. You'd never know it to look at her immaculate home, but she likes dirt.
Which is why she'd gotten up early this Saturday morning, and headed down to the greenhouse. It's June already, a bit late for planting, but her perennials just aren't giving her quite the showing she'd expected this year (par for the course in her life right now, she thinks). She wants a bit more… pop.
So she'd lined her trunk with a tarp and loaded it up with annuals. A few to fill the duller, empty spaces of the bed, and, on a wild hair, a few flower boxes to add to the porch deck. She buys vegetables this year, too – not quite as much as she'd like. Someday, she thinks, she'll do a proper vegetable garden, but for now, it's only things she can grow in strategically placed pots on the front porch. A small tomato plant, and some green beans. Fresh herbs.
She spends the morning in the dirt, planting, and soaking up the warmth of the sun against her back.
Mid-morning, she gets a visitor in the form of Tuck, and she tells the dog in no uncertain terms that he is to stay far, far away from her flowers this year. There had been an unfortunate incident last summer wherein he'd decided her hostas were the perfect place to bury his toys.
"Tuck! Come back!"
She lifts her head toward the sound – the bright, high scolding of a preschooler. Roland is trotting toward her on legs still almost chubby from his toddler years, in shorts and an Arsenal football t-shirt, scowling adorably.
"Hi, Regina!" he announces as he skids to a stop with such short notice that he almost bowls right into the dog.
"Hello, Roland," she greets, sitting back on her heels for a moment. "Did you come to collect a fugitive?"
She finds herself smiling as his little brow furrows, his mouth pinching into a frown that makes his dimples wink out for a moment. "Huh?"
She points at the dog. "It sounds like he escaped."
"Oh!" He brightens, nods once firmly. "Yep. We're walkin' him."
"Are you, then?"
"We are." Robin, his shadow falling across her as he ambles up behind son and dog. He smiles at her, but it's… off. Doesn't reach his eyes and not just because she thinks he means it to be a bit rueful. "I told someone he could put the dog on the leash, on account of he's such a big, responsible boy now. It seems things went a bit awry."
Roland makes a guilty face, lips pressed into a line, dark eyes sliding to the ground, then the dog in question. "He's bigger'n me," is all the excuse he gives, and Regina can't help a little chuckle. He really is a cute kid…
She reaches out, swipes a dirty finger against the tip of his nose and says, "Not for long. You're growing like a weed."
Roland giggles and wipes at his nose as Robin gives a little snort and mutters, "You're telling me. I'm the one who's got to take him clothes shopping this weekend."
Regina casts her gaze up at him, the bright sun in the sky beyond him making her squint a little. "There are worse things, I'm sure."
"In the grand scheme, yes, but why his mum asks me to take him when she's grumbled about every single thing I've bought him in the last year is beyond me."
For a moment, everything feels normal again. Familiar. Just two friends, neighbors, single parents, griping mildly about the everyday annoyances of raising boys. Maybe they can get this back, smooth things over…
"Daddy, can I plant with Regina and you walk Tuck?" Roland asks suddenly, flashing his father a sweet grin, brows up encouragingly.
Robin hesitates, looks between the two of them. "I - well - We don't want to disturb her, Roland. I'm sure she's got plenty of work to do."
"Actually, I'm almost done," Regina tells him. "Just a few left; he can help if he wants." It occurs to her suddenly that maybe he doesn't want Roland to linger, that maybe he doesn't want to linger, so she backtracks, adding, "If it's alright with you, that is."
Robin shakes his head shortly, says, "No, yeah, that's fine. I'll just…" He bends, clips the leash in his hand to Tuck's collar and mutters, "We'll be back, I suppose." His hand falls to Roland's head, giving his hair a little muss as he urges, "You be good for Regina, yeah?"
"Yep," Roland agrees, already plunking himself onto his knees beside her and paying Robin absolutely zero mind. Regina glances Roland's way as he reaches for one of the plants left in the plastic tray, urging him gently to hold on, please, to wait just a minute, but when she looks back up to bid Robin goodbye, she's met with the sight of his back, already a good four feet away, Tuck trotting behind him.
Well, goodbye then, she thinks with a little twinge of hurt before she turns her attention to the little boy beside her, passing him her trowel.
"Here, let's dig this one a little hole…"
.::.
On Monday, she doesn't even bother to greet him. When the bell rings at 6:55, she hollers to Henry to get the door, it's Robin, and she stays in the kitchen, busying herself with the ratatouille she's making. Even with a mandolin, it's tedious, but the end result is worth it - one of her favorite dishes, and Henry's too. She's been craving it for days, and probably should have made it yesterday – would have if she hadn't gotten pulled into an emergency conference call that had her slapping sandwiches together for Sunday dinner before shutting herself into her office until everything was sorted out. Afterward, the idea of all that prep work had seemed much less appealing than it had in the late afternoon, so she's decided to push it to tonight.
A decision that has absolutely nothing to do with keeping her occupied with prep up until Henry's lesson time, while also ensuring that she has no excuse to invite Robin to stay for a dinner that won't be ready until well after said lesson ends. (What does it say, she wonders, when even she doesn't believe her lies?)
Is it childish to avoid him? Maybe. But he'd started it. (What is she, five? she wonders with a shake of her head as she slides the ratatouille into the oven and sets up about cleaning the kitchen.)
His walk with Tuck on Saturday had lasted long enough for Regina and Roland to finish the flowers and move on to learning the names of all the herbs she was growing on the porch. She'd cleaned the dirt off his hands and knees, and enlisted his help along with Henry's in making a batch of fresh lemonade – one they'd taken to the porch in tall, iced glasses, sipping as they sat on the bench there, enjoying the summer midday. And still no sign of Robin and Tuck.
She'd begun to feel a bit like a babysitter by the time he'd come strolling up the block from the opposite direction he'd set off in, unable to quell her annoyance as he'd climbed her porch and apologized for taking so long. He'd lost track of time, he'd said, and she'd pointed out that he could have told her he was taking the dog on a walk to Virginia when he set off.
He'd looked at her, then, not exactly wounded, but… pained, and for a second it had looked like he was going to say something. His lips had parted, he'd sucked in a breath, held it, and then, "Roland, it's time for lunch. Come on."
Roland had waved goodbye to her and Henry, and had left with his father. They were barely to the sidewalk before Henry was eyeing Regina skeptically and asking, "Did you two have a fight?"
He's observant, her boy, and the shift between her and Robin has not been subtle, but it's also not something she wants to discuss with him. There are some things he's simply too young for.
So she'd turned to her son, asked him pointedly, "Did you empty the dishwasher this morning like I asked you to?"
There'd been no mistaking her intent: that particular avenue of conversation wasn't going to be traversed.
Henry's exasperated sigh had followed him into the house, and now here they are. Monday, and awkward, and avoiding each other.
With the ratatouille in the oven, she's out of distractions, so she starts a load of laundry, lets the wash cycle run, and is in the process of switching it to the dryer when eight o'clock rolls around. She knows, because she hears Robin's voice, calling back down the hall: "Goodnight, Regina!"
She can't decide if he sounds annoyed, but he certainly doesn't sound thrilled, and why are they doing this? Avoiding the issue, like a couple of cowards? They'd had a moment, it had passed, and now they were drawing it out, making things uncomfortable, and for what? Because she's gotten her pride hurt? Because she's lonely?
She is being childish, and it's time she stopped. Time she rectified this as best she can – she was the one to start it after all.
Decision made, she lets the dryer door shut with a bang and jogs her way down the hallway.
.::.
"Robin!"
He's out the door already, nearly down the steps when he hears her calling after him softly. He stops and turns, ascends again slowly as she glances back anxiously and shuts the front door behind her. He shifts his guitar from one hand to the other and watches her take a deep breath. She looks troubled, her brow pinched, her arms crossing over her chest and she's not looking him in the eye.
Shit.
He's about to get fired, isn't he? About to be told she'd rather not have him coming round anymore. He's sure of it.
He's sure of it, but he's wrong, because what she actually says is much more surprising: "I'm sorry." She looks up at him, then, finally, and elaborates, "About the other week, in the kitchen, after Henry's lesson. And since then… If I made you feel uncomfortable, or…"
"No," he assures, shaking his head, his belly flooding with relief and twisting with tension at the same time. Sweat blooms on his palms, and he wonders if maybe firing him wouldn't have been better, because he hates that she's still thinking of this, that it's been bothering her now for a fortnight, that it has her worried enough to follow after him and apologize. Not that he's any better, but he feels no guilt about his own twisted up emotions. "No, not at all."
He hears John in his head, telling him to walk away. He doesn't move.
Regina relaxes visibly, nodding and then saying, "Good. I thought maybe…" Her head tilts slightly, and that brow furrows again as she tells him, "It seemed like – there were signs I must've misread – I thought you might be… interested, and…"
"I am." Bollocks. It's out of his mouth before he can help it, and he watches her straighten slightly, her mouth drawing into a confused pout (God, he wants to kiss her - he cannot kiss her). He shouldn't have said that. Shit. Of course, he's said it now, so he might as well… try to explain. "I'm very interested, believe me. But I…" He sucks in a breath, blows it out. "You're a lovely woman - smart, and successful, and bloody gorgeous, with a great kid, and I just don't think I'd be very good for you."
It's a truth, if not the whole truth. Unfortunately, she's not impressed.
Regina scoffs a little laugh, shaking her head. "Is that what this is about?"
Robin shrugs and tightens his grip on his guitar. "I'm a bit of a mess, Regina."
"I do know that," she says, and she's smiling now, that brilliant smile, her confidence returning, blissfully ignorant of how wrong she is. How much she doesn't know that. How bad of an idea it would be for them to get tangled up. "And yet, I find myself oddly attracted to you regardless."
"You deserve better," he tells her, wants to tell her she deserves the moon, the stars, a throne and crown, a thousand other ridiculous things worthy of her beauty, but he's not an idiot, and he's not in love with her, and he doesn't want to scare her off completely. And he shouldn't be wanting anything from her; this can only end badly.
"I think that's for me to decide," she says then, "Not you."
"Regina…"
"Give me a reason. A good one. A better one," she challenges. "Give me a reason that we shouldn't… I don't know, go to the movies Friday night. Right now. And I'll drop it."
There are other reasons, there must be. Has to be. But she's standing there in a chiaroscuro of blue moonlight and yellow porchlight, her eyes midnight dark but still full of fire, of challenge, her tempting lips in a slight pucker as she waits, and he finds he suddenly cannot think. Cannot come up with another reason, another excuse - not one aside from the obvious, screaming through his brain: YOU BURGLARIZED HER PARENTS' HOME AND SHE WILL SURELY FIND OUT ABOUT IT, YOU'VE HORRIBLE LUCK, YOU MISERABLE SOD, DON'T YOU DARE SAY YES TO THIS MAGNIFICENT WOMAN, YOU WILL ONLY CAUSE HER PAIN.
But he doesn't have to say yes to her, because in saying nothing at all, he's said everything, and so she smirks, and nods smugly.
She says only one more thing before she turns and heads back inside:
"You'll pick me up at seven."