Alright guys, this was NOT a fun chapter to write. I nearly gave up half way through. This is Regina's POV of that night in Leopold's office and after. TW: SEXUAL AND PHYSICAL ASSAULT (you can skip about half way down if you'd rather miss that stuff and leave it to your imagination).
It starts with his hand brushing her hair. His body shifting closer to her, too close, and she eyes him warily when his hand lifts and lifts until a shiver takes hold of her senses, morphing into a shudder when his fingers swipe against her cheek, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. It reminds her of Robin, makes her think of Robin, and she hates that this man is twisting and perverting something beautiful they've shared. That's when he kisses her, when he traps her between his body and the desk behind her.
He tastes stale, bitter, and she thinks how disgusting it is that she tastes any bit of him. She nearly vomits at that, gags as his forceful tongue thrusts into her mouth. Her back hurts, bending backward over his desk, and he's pushing her down harder and harder, and she can't maintain any balance. She can't breathe. His hands are on her cheeks, one squeezing her face while the other grips and tugs at her hair creating a vice she can't escape.
Her nails scrape his skin, and she can feel flesh and blood gather at the tips of her fingers as her feet lift from the floor, her weight held by his desk completely. She's suffocating under his weight, crushed between the desk and his torso, and his mouth won't leave hers no matter how hard she pushes him, no matter how many muffled screams he swallows.
His hand finally leaves her face, travels down her body, pulling her shirt down to grip and grope at a bra clad breast before slithering down her belly, eager fingers tugging at the button of her jeans, dipping down and down.
She feels something cold in her hand, a stapler she thinks, maybe a paper hole puncher, a paper weight, and she wonders why her mind even ponders the identity of the object at all when it is heavy and firm and right there within her grasp. His hands finally cease, his tongue surrendering when the object hits his skull with a dull thud.
"Fuck!" He hisses, shifting off of her, taking a step back, and rubbing at his bald scalp. It was a stapler, a black stapler still held tightly in her grasp. She sits up and shifts her leg, her knee colliding harshly between his legs, and the grunt of pain he releases has a surge of courage threading through her. She shoves him away, breathes in and out harshly while reaching for her bag, resting unharmed on the desk.
Her fingers touch it, graze the material of the strap, but then his hand is moving, knuckles impacting with her mouth. Her head snaps back, teeth digging into the tissue of her lower lip, piercing the flesh, and she tastes blood, metallic warmth spreading over her tongue. The bag falls, lands on the floor with a soft thump, and that's when she tries to run.
She manages a couple steps, makes it only a few feet from the door when her momentum is halted, fingers twisting in her hair, clenching harshly, pulling, demanding. The force puts an end to her near escape, a grunt leaving her mouth reflexively, and she can feel the sound vibrate through her pounding skull.
An instant later and she is on her knees, a jolt of pain coursing up to her hips as kneecaps crash onto the hard surface, and then his body is colliding with hers, tumbling on top of her, that hand searching her body once again as she falls to the floor. She lands twisted on her side, the impact temporarily knocking air from her lungs, and she can't be sure whether it was the force of the floor or his body that took her breath away.
"You'll be apologizing for this behavior, Miss Mills." He whispers breathily into her ear while she struggles beneath him, desperately trying to move even just an inch. She needs to move, needs to get away, but she is pinned tightly, and bile is rising in her throat, the taste of copper lingering on her tongue, and her heart feels as if it is preparing to jump from her chest when he speaks again.
"I've seen you with Professor Locksley," his lips coast along her jaw, his wet tongue peeking out to taste her, "I only ask for the same treatment if you expect a passing grade." His hand drops between her thighs, rubbing at her over the material of her jeans and she struggles ten fold, pushes, scratches. Somehow she manages to turn her body until she is on her stomach, manages to shimmie forward just enough, her ribs digging into the unforgiving hard surface beneath her, but that only seems to give him more to grope and fondle until she pulls her arm back and up at just the right angle, her elbow hitting him square in the nose.
She feels a crack, feels the cartilage give way beneath the force of her arm. There is blood soaking into her shirt, seeping, dripping, the scent of it thickening the air around her, and this time she doesn't hesitate. She doesn't look back, just runs, and runs, down steps, across pavement and grass, she runs, her heart beating in her throat, her mind swiveling with fear, anger and disgust.
It's when she finally stops, her legs burning, that she realizes she doesn't have her bag, doesn't have her keys, her phone, and she thinks she's going to sob, can feel the tears stinging her eyes, her nostrils, but then her stomach is heaving and she is curling over next to a bush, emptying the contents of her stomach until she is gasping, shaking, and there is nothing left to come up. She is empty, she feels so empty. When she stands, wipes at her mouth, that's when she feels the wetness on her face. The tears came after all, and they coat her face, paint her cheeks with a glistening sadness as she starts walking.
Robin's place isn't far, but every shadow, every rustling branch on the way has her jumping, her pace quickening. Her knees hurt, her jaw hurts, and it isn't until now that the adrenalin surging through her system depletes enough for her to catalogue her injuries. She's limping. When did she start limping? Her right knee shoots pain with each step, and when she raises her fingers, tentatively coasting across her jaw, her lip, she can feel the slight swelling, her tongue licking across the scraped up tissue in her mouth.
It's with a shaky tap of her knuckles against the door that Robin's apartment opens to her, but it isn't Robin on the other side. She must look frightened, must appear to be a cornered and skittish animal because John furrows his brows, holds his hands up, palms towards her in a submissive stance. "Regina?" He questions cautiously, eyeing her, his gaze lingering at her mouth before taking in the rest of her disheveled appearance. "Are you alright?"
She stands frozen for a moment, her eyes not quite seeing, blinking back the moisture still gathering and blurring her vision. "Is Robin here?" She doesn't recognize her voice. It comes out raspy, unsteady, even frightened, and she hates that, clears her throat before continuing with, "I'm looking for Robin."
He nods, looks uncertain, surprised, before stepping back and gesturing for her to enter. He tells her Robin had left at about a quarter after nine, had asked him to come stay in the apartment with Roland, and then he offers, "I can call him for you, if you like?"
She gives the man a wide berth, makes her way into the main living area, and just being here alone, well, not completely alone, has anxiety bubbling beneath her skin, her senses vigilant and aware as she sits at the edge of the sofa, back straight, legs pressed together tightly. She nods, doesn't say another word, but she can hear him dial, can hear Robin's frantic voice sounding through the speaker. John mutters something about blood, and it isn't until then that she remembers the red staining her shirt. She must tune out at some point, must lose focus completely because she can't remember John hanging up the phone, and in one second she heard his hushed tones directed towards Robin, and in the next they are directed towards her.
"Tea?" He nearly whispers, setting a steaming mug on the table in front of her, and even the quiet of his voice can't prevent the slight jump that brings her back to alertness. She swallows thickly, nods again, meeting his friendly eyes, eyes that show so much apprehension at this very moment. What a fright she must be. It almost has her laughing, almost, but then she's afraid that laugh would turn into a sob, into choking tears, so she does nothing instead, just stares at the steam rising from the hot liquid on the coffee table.
It's Robin's arrival that pulls her from contemplating the swirling vapors. She stands, her body turning rigid, stiff and straight as a board, but then he is walking to her, urgency coloring his features, and she is so relieved to see him, so entirely focused on his approach that she doesn't notice John leave or the door closing behind him.
"Regina." He is breathless, his gaze frantically taking inquiry of her appearance, and his hand lifts, the pads of his fingers making contact with the swollen flesh of her lip before skittering back toward her ear, pushing at her hair. Something about the affectionate touch has her eyes going wide, and she can see Professor Leopold, can smell the man, taste him, feel his hand in her hair, his mouth crashing to hers, and she stiffens, gasps. She can't breathe, she can't see, and her body is trembling, her mind flashing. She backs away, tries to get away, but the desk blocks her, no, the couch. It's the couch, and now she's sitting, and panting, and it is Robin in front of her. Robin.
"Regina," he drops to his knees, hands lifting but not touching her, just hovering in the air when he tells her, "it's me. Regina, it's me. It's Robin. You're safe." She is trying to slow her breathing, pulling deep inhales and pushing out long exhales with her eyes frozen wide and anxious. It hits hard in that moment what nearly just happened to her, what could have happened, what did happen.
She can't be sure how long they spend like that, her distraught eyes unblinking, his displaying a full range of concern, anger, and guilt. She ends up focusing on his hand, still steadily hovering near but not on her. Her head tilts, her mind concentrating on the bloody and bruised mess of his knuckles, and then she is reaching out, brow furrowing as she pulls his appendage close enough for examination. "Robin," she gasps, a question hanging in the way she says his name, but he just shakes his head, tells her he is fine, and then slowly lifts his left hand to her face once again.
She takes a deep breath, tenses, and he stops, his hand dropping to the couch when he growls, "What did he do to you?"
"I got away." She states robotically, quickly, and repeats it, says it again and again until she believes it herself. "I got away." The words leave her mouth on a breath when realization finally strikes, when she finally feels her heart beat slow to a gait rather than a gallop.
"Yes," he nods, exhales, "you did." The hand she holds clenches before shifting, his fingers threading with hers, and it looks painful, it must be painful for him, but he does it nonetheless, his left hand twitching on the sofa beside her, desperately fighting the urge to touch her. She watches as his eyes travel over her once more, and then his hand is moving, lightly grazing against her elbow, the crimson soaked material. Once he seems certain the blood isn't her own he meets her eyes once more. "Why don't we get you out of this."
She sighs, looks toward the blood stained fabric before nodding, swallowing thickly, and following him towards his room. He guides her straight to his bathroom, quickly pulls out a clean washcloth and towel before setting them on the vanity counter. He stands close, so close to her, and she can smell him, the usual woodsy scent he wears wafting with sweat. His hand moves toward her face tentatively, and he looks so hesitant, cautious, and she doesn't want that, never wants that. Her hand reaches out instinctively, grabbing his fingers and steering them to touch her cheek.
She feels safe right now. Well, relatively safe, safe with Robin, and so his touch brings nothing but relief. Relief and a slight wince when his thumb traces over her swollen lower lip. He doesn't push her to talk, to tell him what happened, not yet. He just moves to wet the washcloth with icy cold water before dabbing it at her lip. "I'll get some ice for this." He clears his throat, eyes meeting hers, emotions warring in his blue depths before he tells her he'll be right back.
He doesn't want to leave her, doesn't want to let her out of his sight; something that's obvious by the way he hovers at the threshold, turning back to glance her way before continuing out the door. She looks a mess, her hair in tangled disarray, her lip swollen to twice the size it should and colored with a sputtering of purple tissue.
By the time Robin makes it back she's out of her shirt and jeans, sitting on the toilet lid examining her knee, her elbow washed of any residual blood. He brings her an oversized shirt from his dresser, and it actually brings a smile to her face. It's the same Rolling Stones t-shirt she'd donned the morning he'd made her breakfast, something he remembers too if the slight smile gracing his lips says anything, and as she slips it over her head she lets those memories momentarily soothe the apprehension niggling at the corners of her mind.
That is, until Robin brings her back to reality. He asks for her clothing, gently takes the heap from the floor and tells her he'll put it somewhere safe in case they need it later, in case they need it for evidence. She hadn't thought of that, hadn't even contemplated calling the authorities. Not when Professor Leopold knows about their relationship, not when she is fairly certain Robin himself may be guilty of assault.
"Here," he states, drawing her attention to a bag of ice he holds towards her face before he takes notice of her swollen knee, "can I take a look at that?" She knows it will be fine, can tell it isn't anything serious, but she'll let him tend to her, let him nurse her if it brings him some solace.
It's when he's about to leave again, about to go get more ice for her knee this time that she halts him, tells him she'll freeze if he keeps plying her with ice, and with that she drops the bag from her face and reaches for his hand. "Let me see this." It sounds like a question leaving her lips, but it isn't, not really, she's determined to soothe his pain as much as he is her.
"Regina," he tilts his head, sighs, "I'm alright. I can take care of it later." He tugs back slightly, trying to extract the injured limb from her hold, but she clings tight to his wrist, sends him a glare before insisting, and then pleading.
"Let me do this, Robin. Please." It must be the look in her eyes, the desperate need she can feel bubbling within that has him acquiescing, telling her it's really nothing, hardly even hurts. She scoffs at that, raises an eyebrow, and the action has a dimpled smirk erupting on his face. That smile nearly fools her into thinking everything is going to be alright, but then she catches a glimpse of her swollen lip in the mirror, watches the red tinged water swirl down the drain as she washes the gore from his knuckles, and she knows everything is not alright.
She cleans at the flesh, plucks some loose skin away, and smears his hand with antibiotic ointment before wrapping it. The entire time she tends to his right hand his left massages at her shoulder, her neck, gently, soothingly. His thumb spins circles against her muscles, traces patterns, and the action has tension slowly uncoiling, stiffness loosening. She absorbs the comfort like a sponge, savors every last bit he provides. They take care of each other, and it dawns on her suddenly just how long it has been since she's had someone to take care of her, someone to care for in return.
Once they are both satisfied with the state of their individual injuries Robin offers her some Tylenol P.M., and by the time they make it to the bed, his chest pressed against her back, her eyes feel heavy and warm, lids fluttering. "We'll talk tomorrow." She says, hardly noticing the slur of her words.
"Did he?" Robin sighs, his embrace tightening around her protectively, "Regina, can you tell me? Did he.." The words catch in his mouth, but she knows what he's asking, what he's wondering, and her gut twists with the knowledge that no, 'he' hadn't, but 'he' would have, 'he' almost had.
She shudders before turning in Robin's embrace, snuggling her body against his, nuzzling her nose into the bend where is neck meets his shoulder while she whispers, "No. No, he didn't." Robin's relief is palpable, tangible. His breath a deep exhale, his shoulders softening, muscles relaxing, and it's in his shielding embrace that she finally drifts off into a restless sleep.
Thanks for reading. Let me know what you thought. Thanks to several lovely ladies for their help with this one. I needed it!