Breaking In

by SomewhereApart

Robin Locksley has hit rock bottom. A rash decision to help his family has lead to him nearly losing them instead, and now he's woken up to discover he accidentally broke into in the home of a stranger - single mom and ad executive Regina Mills - while stumbling home drunk last night. Can these neighbors overcome their rocky start to find something they need in each other?

37. Chapter 37

Author's Note: Trigger warnings for emotional abuse, disordered eating, and anxiety. Welcome to Sunday brunch with Mother.

---

They're crouched in her garden, quietly pulling up little green shoots again, when Regina steps out onto the porch with her coffee cup in hand. It's only just barely nine, but as she walks up to smile over the rail at the two of them, Robin can see she's already dressed for the day.

It's not her usual weekend attire – a dark blue sleeveless dress that fits her like a dream, and a simple string of pearls around her neck. Her hair is blown out straight, and she's already done her makeup, speaking from soft rose lips as she asks playfully, "Are you two ripping up my garden?"

"Uh huh!" Roland tells her happily. And then he adds sagely, "But only the ugly things."

Regina laughs, and it warms Robin right through the middle. He's glad to see her smiling; yesterday had clearly not been a very good day for her.

"Good," she nods at Roland, trying to match his seriousness and failing.

She glances at Robin, and then away quickly, taking a deep breath and wetting her lips.

Interesting.

He wonders what exactly had prompted that reaction, thinks maybe she's still self-conscious about calling him yesterday. She shouldn't be. There's no shame in reaching out for help, and she has to know he'd never judge her for it.

He wants to say so, but calling attention to it would probably just make her feel even worse, so instead he smiles at her and says, "You look nice today."

Regina makes a face and tells him, "Brunch with my parents."

"Oh, you're having quite the weekend, aren't you?" he teases sympathetically. That might explain her state yesterday. He can only imagine the level of therapy one might need to prepare themselves for brunch with Cora Mills.

"Yeah," she scoffs, and then she adjusts her hold on her mug and tells him, "I have your sweatshirt, if you want it back."

"I'll get it the next time I'm here," he tells her casually; he has no intention of really doing so. It's a favorite, but the soft little smile she gives him is worth more than a bit of cloth. And besides, if it's brought her any measure of comfort, he wants to make sure it's still there when she gets home from brunch.

She nods, and tells him, "Thank you. It was like… a remote hug, when one was sorely needed."

"Good. That was the intention."

"Regina, can I have juice?" Roland pipes up, clearly bored with all this grown-up talk. Robin really does need to have a word with him about assuming he's welcome to anything in anyone's kitchen, but he has a feeling Regina would insist that he is exactly that when it comes to her kitchen in particular, so he lets it slide.

She doesn't seem the least bit bothered by the request. Only smirks, and asks him, "Apple or grapefruit?"

"Apple," Roland says firmly, face twisted into a scowl. "Grapefruit is icky."

"Well, we can't have icky so early in the day, can we?" she teases.

Roland shakes his head and says, "Nope."

"Then apple it is," Regina confirms, before she looks at Robin, and asks, "Coffee?"

"If it's not any trouble," he nods.

She assures him it's not, and then looks at Roland again, with a firm, "Only the ugly things."

Roland's head bobs resolutely and he squints back into the dirt.

Robin watches her until she disappears into the house again, and then turns his attention back to Roland, who has started to frown resolutely at a patch of tall, yellow, daisy-looking flowers toward the back of the garden.

"Daddy, can I have one of those yellow ones?" he asks, to Robin's utter lack of surprise.

"These are Regina's flowers, son," Robin reminds him. "You'll have to ask her when she comes back out with your juice."

"But…" Roland scowls. "I need it."

He's not sure what could cause such a mighty need for a daisy, but he repeats himself, "You can ask Regina in a minute. Until then, why don't you grab that little scraggly bit there?"

He points to a weed trying to poke its way up between two shoots, and Roland heaves a sigh and bends to pull it.

Regina reemerges a minute later, a cup in one hand, a mug in the other, and a wincing smile on her face.

"I just realized I never asked if you wanted it iced," she says apologetically, but Robin waves her off.

"Hot's fine," he assures. It's a warm morning, but not a blazing one. He can do with a bit of hot coffee.

"Regina, can I have one of those yellow ones?" Roland butts in, pointing at the flowers in question with his face ever hopeful, dimples popping out in his cheeks.

Robin watches Regina fight not to laugh at him, her eyes all warm amusement.

"What's the magic word?" she urges, and Robin kicks himself for not being the one to insist on manners first.

"Please, can I have one of these yellow ones?" Roland tries again.

"Yes," Regina nods. "You may have one of my Lemon Queens. But let your Daddy pick it for you, okay?"

Roland nods, turning to Robin with a "Daddy, please?" and one of those smiles that gets him any damn thing he wants.

"Of course, my boy," Robin assures, pushing to his feet and stepping carefully into the garden until he can reach the desired flowers.

"Make sure it's the prettiest one!" Roland insists, just as Robin reaches for one that's a bit nibbled on one petal – he hadn't wanted to pluck her most pristine bloom for his preschooler.

"How pretty?" Robin asks, peering over his shoulder at his son.

"The very prettiest," Roland instructs. "And I'll know, Daddy; I'll check."

He will, Robin knows that. And there are dozens of these Lemon Queens, as she'd called them, so Robin figures it won't hurt her to part with one of the better ones. He veers a bit left, and picks a flawless one at Roland's request, then gingerly retreats and hands it to him.

Regina watches the whole thing from the porch, their drinks resting on the rail in front of her.

Roland takes the yellow flower carefully, saying, "Thanks, Daddy."

And then he toddles off toward the porch, climbing the steps carefully and disappearing from Robin's view. But he watches Regina's face melt, her grin spreading as she drops her gaze to his son, her hand reaching down as Roland's little voice floats to Robin: "Thank you for the juice."

Well, no wonder.

And to think, he'd almost picked them a dud.

Regina lifts that little yellow flower, dragging a fingertip over one thankfully pristine petal, and offering Roland a thoroughly charmed, "You are very welcome, Roland. Thank you for your weeding. And this pretty flower."

Good man, he thinks.

Robin grins, watching as Regina hands Roland his juice and urges him to be careful on the steps. And then she turns her gaze to Robin with a slightly suspicious tilt of her head, and he realizes she thinks there's a chance he put Roland up to this.

He shakes his head as earnestly as possible, says, "All him."

And in case he wasn't convincing enough, Roland rejoins him with a slightly miffed, "See, I told you I needed it," that makes Regina tip her head back and laugh.

Robin drinks in the sight of her, unbothered for a moment and happy (it's a rare sight these days, and he feels twin stabs of guilt at himself and loathing for those wankers she works with). When she looks back down at them, biting her grin and shaking her head in amusement, he offers her a look that clearly means, I told you so.

Regina chuckles warmly, and says, "Let me know if you boys need anything else. But no dirt in the house."

"I promise," he tells her, and then she's gone again, taking her little yellow bloom with her.

.::.

It had been exactly what she needed, that little gesture from Roland. Something sweet to get her day off to a good start. She'd slept well after her dream (no surprise there), but she's not looking forward to this day.

To Mother.

To Mother after having been blown off, and blown off after acquiescing to Regina's desired plans, no less.

There is no rebellion today. She's done her hair the way Mother likes it, she's chosen makeup that is appropriate for a daytime appearance at the Club, and she'd even changed her mind on the dress she had planned on wearing, worried that Mother would tell her the muted grey washes her out, or that the folded neckline is ugly. (She likes it, but would Mother?)

Instead, she'd gone with a sleek royal blue sheath dress – simple, elegant, difficult to pick apart. And it fits her well right now, doesn't pinch or bulge anywhere in a way that Mother can zero in on. She's paired it with the pearls Daddy gave her for her birthday several years ago, and has nude pumps set aside for when they leave, all of her essentials slipped into a matching leather clutch.

Perfectly presentable.

It makes her feel just a little downtrodden, but today is for Henry. She doesn't want to have a standoff with her mother over something so easily altered, so she's fallen in line like a good little Stepford daughter. She'll play the part, dress the part, smile and be polite and bite her tongue.

And then tonight, she'll do something to treat herself. She's not sure what, but she'll figure it out later.

No, she thinks. She'll figure it out now.

Dr. Hopper would suggest that she know before she leaves for the day, that she have a plan. Self-care, and triggers, and all that.

So tonight, she will… take Henry for ice cream. A treat for both of them. She'll take him to that ice cream shop that he likes, and she'll get the sinfully good strawberry ice cream that she likes, and she will add chocolate chips to it, and she will not feel guilty about eating it. It will be her reward, her treat for herself. Guilt-free ice cream, no matter what stupid and hurtful things Mother says to her.

She'll have her ice cream, and then she'll come home and take a long, hot bath. She'll light some candles, and pour in some scented oil, and she'll put on one of the Lord of the Rings movies for Henry to give herself plenty of time to soak. And then she'll just stay there until she turns into an overheated prune.

.::.

Regina valets her car when they arrive at the Club, and meets her parents at the concierge's desk as planned. Much to Mother's disappointment, Regina herself does not keep a membership here, so her parents are always stuck waiting to check them in as guests. It's a point of contention, one she'll surely hear about again today, but quite frankly she doesn't have the money to burn on a membership to a place she'd never drag Henry to on her own. She doesn't golf, there's a community center not too far from their place that has a pool, she already has a spa she likes, and there are plenty of places to eat in Baltimore that aren't full of prissy, pretentious country club people.

She's not forking over the membership fee just to save her mother the embarrassment of having to sign her in.

Of course, embarrassment never does any favors to Cora Mills's temperament, so Regina always tries to arrive a few minutes early, to reduce the risk of her parents having to wait for them and compound the terrible embarrassment of a daughter who refuses to join the Club. Today she is right on time, a little bit of a traffic snarl eating up the ten extra minutes she'd allotted herself. But at least she's not late.

The first thing Mother says when she sees her is "Hello, dear." The second is, "That's an awfully dark color for daytime, isn't it?"

Regina's smile tightens and she breathes in, out. So much for any vain hope that this would be a good day.

"I think it's a beautiful color on her," Daddy compliments immediately, leaning in and giving Regina a kiss on the cheek before greeting Henry with a quick hug.

"Thank you, Daddy," Regina murmurs, as always, and then she combs her fingers through her hair and tells her mother, "I think the blue is flattering. And it goes well with Daddy's pearls."

Cora's mouth pinches a little, but her brows rise and fall in concession. "I suppose it does. And at least it's slimming."

Regina grits her teeth, then watches as Cora turns her attention to Henry. Regina feels her belly twist and swoop, hot anxiety sloshing through it so suddenly that she has to press a hand there to steady herself. If Cora says anything, Regina is going to take her son, turn around, and march right the hell out of here, birthday be damned.

But Mother just smiles, and tells him, "You're smartly dressed today, dear, aren't you?"

Relief fizzles through her, cools that heat as her lips curl in satisfaction. She'd pressed his khakis just this morning, and picked up a new, light blue checked button-down shirt for him earlier this week, finishing it off with a bow tie nearly the same royal blue as her dress. She'd also wet-combed that stubborn piece of hair he'd woken up with until it had finally lain flat, Henry huffing and scowling his annoyance all the while.

But he does look quite smartly dressed, in his new shoes, and his Club-appropriate attire, and she's pleased to have her mother's approval on that at least. She may never pass muster, but at least she can dress her son in a way that does.

Daddy tells Henry that eleven looks quite sophisticated on him as they finish up their check-in, and then they're off to the cafe.

Regina slides an arm around Henry's shoulder as they walk, giving him a little squeeze. When he leans over to her and whispers, "I think you look really pretty, Mom," she manages her first genuine smile since she'd handed over the keys to her Mercedes.

.::.

They haven't even reached their table yet when Regina gets the next passive aggressive swipe from her mother – and all without Cora even having to open her mouth.

No, no, it's the waitress, a bubbly young girl named Anna who has been waiting tables here for the past several years, and who always has a smile and a little too much conversation to share. But she's sweet, and she means well, and Regina can't really blame her for the way she grins and says, "I'm glad to see you're feeling better, Ms. Mills," as they're all taking their seats.

Unaware that she had ever been feeling unwell in the first place, Regina still responds with an automatic, "Oh… Thank you. You're too kind."

As soon as the redhead has ferried herself away, Regina looks to her mother, one brow rising in question. "Feeling better?"

Cora huffs softly, but her eyes don't stray from the menu she's begun to peruse as she answers, "Well, we had to come up with some reason for last week's reservation for four becoming a reservation for two, and I certainly wasn't going to admit that my own daughter stood me up to go galavanting off on some—"

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Henry's shoulders beginning to slump, and it kicks something up inside of her. A panicked sort of need to protect him, to shut her mother up at all costs before she keeps talking in a way that will bruise.

"Mother, if the rest of that sentence is going to make my son feel badly about wanting something special for his birthday, I want you to know that this reservation for four will rapidly become a reservation for two." Regina tries to hide her nervous swallow, grateful that Cora is only just now glancing up to meet Regina's own steady gaze.

"Excuse me?" her mother questions.

"I will leave," Regina tells her plainly, although she's careful to keep her voice down. She can barely hear it over the sound of her own pulse nervously knocking in her throat, but damnit, she will not let Mother hurt Henry's feelings along with her own. "We will leave."

"No, you won't," Cora scoffs, as if the very idea is absurd. And it is, but she doesn't care. She's wrestled up a bit of courage and spine from somewhere, and she's running with it.

So much for not rebelling.

"Oh yes, Mother, I will." She'll probably pay for this later, but she's started now, and she'd damn well better finish, so she continues very calmly, and very politely, "I understand that you went out of your way to arrange the nice afternoon I requested for Henry's birthday. And I understand that we cancelled on short notice, and it upset you. And I fully expect you to make your displeasure known, but I want to be very clear with you: I have a line that is not to be crossed. And it is sitting directly to my left. You will not say a word today that makes Henry feel anything other than celebrated, or we will leave. Do you understand me?"

Do not break eye contact. Do not break eye contact.

It's a mantra she tells herself as she watches Cora's eyes narrow, watches her mother size her up. Regina wonders if she's trying to choose the most vulnerable place to land a verbal arrow, but all she says is a coolly disapproving, "You're making a scene."

"No, I'm not; nobody outside of this table can hear a word I'm saying." She's made damn sure of that. "I'm not making a scene, I'm setting a boundary."

Cora's head tilts just slightly, a flicker of judgmental laughter preceding her almost snide, "It sounds like someone has been seeing that ridiculous therapist again."

Regina bristles, sits a little taller, and admits, "Not that it's any of your business, but I have recently had an appointment, yes."

Regina neglects to mention that it was two appointments plus a phone call, and that she's due back on Wednesday. Mother doesn't need any more ammunition for her cannon of ridicule than she already has.

"But that is neither here nor there," Regina continues. "I'm not saying this because of therapy. I'm saying this because I love my son. It was his birthday, and he wanted to go to the Smithsonian, so I gave him what he wanted."

"You spoiled him."

"No, Mother," Regina shakes her head, beginning to grow dangerously comfortable in her own strength once it becomes apparent she's not going to be immediately slapped down for it. "I had fun with him – we had a little spontaneous adventure. I gave him a good memory, and a great birthday."

She elects not to voice her silent continuation of that particular thought: Something you never once afforded me, you spiteful, miserable bitch.

"So if you want to take your anger out on me, you go right ahead," Regina invites, a stab of regret slicing through her middle as soon as she hears the words come out of her mouth. But she swallows and soldiers on, finishing with, "But never on my son. You won't taint his good day with your disappointment, and if you try to, I won't let him stay here. This is his day, not yours, or mine, or Daddy's. And it's going to be a good day."

Cora tries to play it off as though she isn't ruffled by Regina's words, but Regina knows better. No matter how easily she laughs it off, or how dismissively she chuckles, "I don't know why you thought anyone at this table expected it to be anything else, dear. Honestly, you can be so dramatic."

Regina fights not to roll her eyes – a fight she loses, and ends up disguising the motion by turning her head in her father's direction, as if she'd been intending to look there all the while. She's been focusing so hard on Mother that she hadn't spared a glance for either Henry, but she finds her father's eyes bright and pleased with her, one corner of his mouth ticking up in a blunted smile.

He's proud of her, she thinks with a pleasant flush.

"We'll all have a nice lunch," he reassures, his hand gently patting the one of hers nearest to him. It's only then that she realizes she's been white-knuckling her fork, and she uncurls her grasp with what she hopes is an invisible flush of embarrassment up her neck. "I'm leaning toward the shrimp and grits myself."

It's an attempt at a segue, and Mother seems to be going with the let-me-clutch-my-pearls-and-insist-I-would-never routine right now, so Regina lets it all drop, telling him, "That sounds delicious, Daddy. They're good here."

And then she turns to her son, asking Henry, "What are you thinking, sweetheart?"

She leans toward him as she asks, peers over onto his menu, and Henry moves in, too, until their shoulders touch.

"They have stuffed French toast," he says, smiling up at her hopefully.

Regina skims the menu for it, reads the description, and says, "Mmm, with berry compote. I think that sounds wonderful for birthday brunch." She faux-whispers, "Maybe Anna will even stick a candle in it," and earns herself a grin.

When he asks, "What about you, Mom?" she has to force herself to actually give the menu a good look, skimming appetizers, and brunch offerings, before she tells herself to stop pretending and go straight to the salads.

Mother had started off in a mood, and Regina had just made it even worse. She's not going to invite even more criticism by ordering something as decadent as eggs Benedict (not unless she wants a repeat of the last time), or that stuffed French toast.

No, no, she'll get a salad. Something clean and lean and impenetrable.

They've moved the heirloom caprese she likes to the brunch menu, she notices with a pang of longing. Maybe Daddy will split it with her…

Her scrutiny of the menu is interrupted by Anna returning to take their drink orders, and Regina tells herself that one mimosa will not impair her driving, but will vastly improve her meal. So she indulges, realizing only as the request is out of her mouth that Mother hasn't ordered a drink—which means she will be the only one drinking.

She has a moment to wonder whether Mother will make a stink about it (or a passive aggressive dig, more accurately), and then she hears two precious words come from her father beside her: "Bloody Mary."

Thank God.

She breathes a little more easily for the thirty seconds before Cora declares that, on second thought, she thinks they're all ready to order their meals now, too.

Regina isn't ready yet, hasn't decided yet, but Anna always starts with Mother. Mother knows that, so surely she has decided on her meal. And Henry is ready, too, which means Regina needs to make a choice now.

Cora orders a salad – not a huge surprise, but Regina has to fight a frown. She'd been hoping to add a cup of their crab soup to her own salad, but a meal with Mother is a chess game, and she knows that if she wants to diminish the opportunities for her mother to dig her claws in, she has to undercut her on calories, and overshoot her on health. So anything cream-based is out, and the tuna nicoise is off the table, too, what with the potatoes. She should have eaten something this morning, so her stomach wasn't so empty...

Henry asks for his stuffed French toast, with Regina adding, "And a fruit plate for him, as well." It'll counteract the sugar and cream cheese in the French toast, and give Regina a little more food to steal.

For her own meal, she orders a baby kale salad, resigning herself to not quite being full and having to sip slowly at her single mimosa lest the champagne go to her head.

Daddy orders the shrimp and grits as planned. Regina feels a little burn of jealousy, and then she reminds herself she has ice cream to look forward to later. A double-scoop, maybe, and definitely with chocolate chips.

She has earned it.

.::.

Things get a little easier once the meal is ordered – even easier once the drinks arrive. Daddy turns the conversation to Henry, asking him about their drive to Washington last week, and all the things they saw and did. Regina takes the opportunity to sit quietly, smile at her son, sip her mimosa, and take in the ambience.

She has mixed feelings about this restaurant.

It's her mother's favorite of the two on the Club grounds, so she's been here more times than she can count. On the one hand, it's sunny, and pleasant, and the food is good. The service is never lacking, and when she comes here with just her father, she always has a relaxing, pleasant time. With Mother, it's about fifty-fifty as to whether they'll have a pleasant-ish lunch or one that leaves her feeling hollowed out and ashamed.

And that's the other hand, really: too many memories. On good days, she sits in these lovely white chairs and remembers sunny summer afternoons, or cozy winter dinners. They'd brought Daniel here when he came home to meet her parents, and he'd leaned over to her every five minutes and whispered some sort of mockery or observation about some of the snootier diners that evening. She'd had to fight not to snicker, had pressed her knee against his under the table, and taken another bite of her risotto. She can still taste it – lobster risotto, and white wine. They'd even had dessert, before Mother managed to make a snide comment about the weight Regina had put on since she left home, and did she really need that slice of pecan pie?

Daniel hadn't taken too kindly to that—and had had no problem saying so—and that had pretty much been the end of an amicable relationship between her mother and her future fiancé.

But still, the dinner itself was a good memory.

Other dinners, other lunches… not so much. Her parents have been members for as long as she can remember, which means that Regina practically grew up here at the Club. And growing up was… not easy. She's had as many dinner-table battles here as pleasant lunches. Has sat around this exact table before and practically minced a chicken breast rather than eating it, hoping if the pieces were small enough, Daddy wouldn't notice how little of it she ate. She can recite the lowest calorie items on the menu from every summer of the late nineties. Can vividly remember which of the waitstaff looked at her like they knew, or looked at Cora with that pinched sort of disapproval.

So on bad days, she hates this place. Hates the memories. On bad days, she sits here and feels very young.

Today is… not the best day, but not her worst. She's playing Mother's game, and that's not ideal, but she still has her mind on that ice cream later. She still believes she deserves it.

Dr. Hopper would be proud.

Today, she can sit here and sip her mimosa and not feel guilty about it (it's only one, after all).

When the food arrives, she finds the baby kale salad is not a large meal by any stretch of the imagination, but it'll be enough to hold her over. She won't be starving, at least. And it tastes good – kale and cucumbers, spiced apples, and a tempting hunk of stilton cheese that she immediately shifts to the side. She'll have a little bit of it, but probably not all.

For a minute, she wishes she was just here with Daddy and Henry and could eat all the cheese she damn well pleases. Hell, if she was here with the two of them, she wouldn't even bother with the salad. She'd get something else – that caprese salad as an appetizer, and maybe the nicoise after all.

Regina doesn't realize quite how much she's zoned out of the meal happening around her until she hears Cora say her name.

"So, Regina, have you met anyone special since that man who didn't work out?"

Damnit. She should have seen this coming – an outing to the country Club wouldn't be complete without Cora attempting to point out at least five eligible men Regina could be pursuing. At least this time she's asked without that razor edge to her voice that usually means she's baiting. She's probably genuinely trying to be civil, finally.

But still, it grates at Regina, and doubly so when Henry sits a little straighter and asks, "Who? Robin?"

"Ah, so he has a name," Cora says, interested. Regina reminds herself that her mother had no way of knowing how Henry would react to this particular line of questioning, so this isn't as intentionally cornering as it feels. Even so, she's not letting herself be led down this path.

"Henry, now isn't the time," Regina chides gently, hoping she can convey with a look just how badly she does not want to talk about this with his grandmother. She turns her attention back to Cora and reminds, "I mentioned last time we saw each other that I had been out since then. But no, nobody special."

Cora looks back and forth between Regina and Henry, takes a bite of her salad and chews methodically.

Regina attempts to do the same, but there's a look in her mother's eye, calculating, thoughtful. There's something more here, and Mother's keen nose for conflict and gossip has sniffed it out, leaving Regina stuck grinding cucumber between her teeth and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It takes her a minute, but Cora finally muses, "I do find it curious that Henry has met this Robin, even though you claim he wasn't worth talking about."

And there it is.

"He's a friend of a friend; they had already met," Regina dismisses with a sigh. "And I don't want to talk about this. It's old news."

"Are you sure?" Cora's gaze slides to Henry, who has suddenly taken a keen interest in his orange juice.

"Yes," Regina answers, her tongue wetting her lips and tasting a phantom echo of Thursday night's whiskey under the sweetness of citrus. "It's past, and it's private."

"Sweetheart, we're your parents," Cora reasons.

"Yes, Mother, I know that," Regina sighs heavily, "And if there's ever something worth telling, I will tell you. But for now, it's just me and Henry."

"Well, that's a shame. You shouldn't be alone, dear."

"I'm not."

"Your mother's right," her father says from his place next to her, and Regina has to fight to keep the betrayal off her face. It's rare that they gang up on her. "You deserve someone special in your life—"

"I had someone special, Daddy, and he died," Regina tells her father, ignoring the way her mother scoffs from the other side of the table. "And then I had Graham, and it was… good, but not the same. I spent two years on something that didn't work, and I wouldn't call it a waste, but… I'm too old to pass my time in relationships that don't work. So I am trying, when the opportunity presents itself. But I'm not going to invest time and energy into things that don't feel right."

"You're too old to be picky," Cora tells her tartly from across the table.

Regina reaches for her mimosa again and takes a deep swallow, hoping the juice and bubbles will wash away the sudden surge of bitterness she feels. She's too old to invest time in things that feel wrong, and she's sitting across the table from the reason she can't have the one thing in years that's felt right.

It doesn't really work; she can still feel the venomous slither of resentment through her veins as she mutters, "I'm only thirty-five, Mother. It's not that old."

"It is if you're going to have more children," Cora says, and Regina chuckles, shaking her head.

"Well, then it's a good thing that's not anywhere in my future plans," she tells her, before turning to smile at Henry. "I have a child, and he's wonderful. I don't need anything more."

Henry smiles back at her around a closed mouthful of French toast, and Regina feels a surge of motherly affection that nearly takes her breath away. He is perfect – even when he's not. He's the one thing in her life that makes every moment of struggle and doubt and anger and anxiety worth it. A happy smile with a mouth full of junk food shouldn't make her so proud, but it does – because it means that whatever her memories of this restaurant and these tables are, his will be far better. Whatever Mother may have done to her, she has done better.

She realizes then that today was a mistake– she didn't want this because it was special for Henry, she wanted it because this is how she'd always been taught "special occasions" were done. Tense meals at the Club, and manipulations, and tiptoeing around carbs and cheese and sugar and fat so as not to arouse the ire of the woman across the table from her.

This was her lockstepping into Mother's expectations of her without even realizing she was doing it, and screw that, and screw her. Regina has everything she needs sitting just to her left, and her right, and Good Birthdays do not have to be like this.

So yes, this was a mistake, but now they're here, so she'll make the best of it until the check comes, and then she'll take her son and make a better day of it. In the meantime, she breaks off a little hunk of that stilton and piles it onto an apple slice for her next bite.

"That's all well and good for you," Cora tells her, still stuck on Regina's love life, it seems. "But whoever you end up with might want a child of his own."

"Mother, if I agree to marry again, it's going to be to a man who loves me for what I already have, and loves Henry as his own. I'd never say yes to anything else." Cora scowls as Regina adds, "And I will choose him for myself. So you can stop tallying the list of men in this room you'd like to introduce me to before we leave."

"I was doing no such thing," Cora retorts, reaching for her water and taking a dainty sip, before she adds, "But your son needs a father figure; I'm sure you know that."

"No, I don't," Henry speaks up next to her. "I have my mom."

"Yes, well, your mother—" Cora begins, but Regina has no real desire to hear how that sentence is going to end, so she interrupts it.

"I don't have to be dating a man for my son to look up to him," she tells her with absolute confidence. If nothing else, this summer has proven that. "In fact, it's probably better if I'm not. Henry had Graham in his life for two years, and then he was gone. I want Henry to know good men, and he does, but I don't want them to be men who might up and disappear on him because things don't work out between us. A man doesn't have to be dating me to be important to Henry."

"Well, I suppose for Henry's sake, we should be glad of that."

Regina rolls her eyes, hard – can't help herself after that last little remark.

"Cora, why don't we let this go?" Daddy suggests, finally bothering to rejoin the conversation. At least he's defending her this time, and not making it worse. "Regina clearly doesn't want to talk about it anymore, and I think it's safe to say she knows how to give Henry what he needs."

"Thank you, Daddy," she says pointedly, before turning her attention back to her mother, and telling her, "We're doing just fine on our own."

Mother makes this sound, a miffed little, "Hmm," but she doesn't argue the point any further.

.::.

Cora's mood doesn't much improve after that – something Regina takes a darkly smug little thrill in. She's pushed back not once, but twice, today and won. But personal satisfaction or not, it does put a little bit of a damper on the mood. Their conversation hits awkward, stilted pauses, bumping up against the roadblock of her mother's sour temperament; Regina is glad when Anna pops by their table and Mother requests the check.

"Do you want any of this wrapped up?" she asks them.

Daddy hasn't quite cleared his plate, and Henry had admitted defeat with two bites of French toast left before asking if he could go to the bathroom. They're just sitting there, going to waste, and she's by no means full...

Fuck it, she's going to eat them. It's only two bites.

Regina's stomach swoops nervously as she lifts her fork and spears up the last of the French toast, while her father tells Anna he'll take the rest of his shrimp to go.

She's about an inch from popping her forkful into her mouth when Mother says coolly, "Regina, do you really think you need French toast?"

Everything freezes.

At least, it feels like everything freezes – Regina with her mouth open and French toast poised for eating, Mother's cool stare, Anna with Daddy's plate in her hand at the side of their table.

Regina feels mortification pour over her, drizzling down her spine, coating her heart until it pumps hard, harder, harder. Mother is not doing this right now. Not in front of the waitress.

Anna, bless her heart, tries to make it better with a nervously chuckled, "Oh, everyone needs that French toast. It's amazing."

"Be that as it may," Cora clips, "Regina has to work hard to keep her figure. Any little bit of sweets just sticks right to her, ever since she was little."

"Cora, that's enough," her father hisses.

Regina feels her embarrassment burn hotter, her stomach twisting sourly. She's suddenly not at all hungry, but she is stuck. Still frozen, and feeling more foolish by the minute. If she puts down the fork, Anna will know that she's let her mother push her into it, will know that she believes what Mother said. If she eats the French toast, she'll have to swallow food down right now, when she's feeling like this, and she'll have to deal with her mother afterward.

So which is worse: absolute spineless humiliation, or Mother's sharp tongue?

Her palms sweat, her stomach twists.

And then she flicks her gaze to Anna and says, "It sure looks amazing," and shoves the bite into her mouth.

She has been living with her Mother her whole life; she's not going to let this near-stranger think less of her just to spare herself now.

Anna smiles at her and says, "I think you made the right choice," before she flounces off with the plate.

"Idiot girl," Cora mutters as soon as she's gone, and Regina honestly thinks she means her until she tells Daddy, "I'll be handling the bill today; she doesn't deserve the sort of tip you usually give her."

Well, that's just great. Now she's cost that perfectly nice girl a proper tip.

Regina makes a mental note to slip her something extra if she can, staring at the empty glass in front of her in an attempt to avoid her mother's gaze as she chews her French toast as daintily as one can with chipmunk cheeks full of sweetened cream cheese and berries. It's a too-big mouthful, sinfully sweet, almost cloying with her stomach so unsteady.

Avoiding Mother's gaze doesn't do anything to avoid her words, though.

"And as for you, Regina," Cora begins (Regina glances up automatically, then curses herself for it because now she can't look away). "You are an embarrassment. Stuffing your face like an overgrown child who's never seen food on a plate before – something we all know is clearly not true." She adds that last bit with a rake of her gaze over what she can see of Regina's body, and Regina is suddenly acutely aware of the downfall of shoving forbidden food into her mouth: she can't fight back until she swallows. Cora takes full advantage of her forced silence and Henry's absence to get another shot in: "The last thing you need is to indulge, as if you deserve dessert after your petulant show of immaturity today."

"Cora—" her father attempts to break in, but Mother's having none of it.

"Oh, shut up," she hisses, and Regina swallows half of her mouthful. "I don't know what your problem is, young lady, but between the silent treatment, and cancelling last week's plans, and the rudeness today, I am appalled to know that I have raised such an ungrateful brat."

Regina swallows the rest of her French toast and opens her mouth to sling something, anything, back at her Mother – anything to counter the indignant flush of mortification in her cheeks.

But then she sees Henry, making his way back from the bathroom, and goddamnit, it's his day, and she won't do this. She couldn't do anything about the waitress, but she will not have a blow-up with Mother in the middle of the country club in front of her son.

So all she says is, "Enough. Not in front of Henry."

Mother opens her mouth to speak, too, eyes hot and narrowed, but Daddy cuts her off with a warning, "Cora," and a muttered, "People are staring."

It's not people, it's person – one wide-eyed woman at a table two feet away (unlike Regina, Mother does not have the good sense to keep her voice low enough that the people at the table next to them cannot hear every harsh word she's said). But it's enough for Mother to remember that publicly berating her adult daughter for eating two bites of goddamn French toast probably doesn't make the best impression, and, well, appearances.

So she seethes silently, and Regina does the same. She should have ordered another damn drink. She can drive just fine on two mimosas.

Henry plunks back into his seat a moment later, oblivious to the tension at the table, but Regina's hands are still shaking slightly, her heart still hammering. She needs a minute to breathe, or scream, or count to twenty.

"I'm going to the restroom," she says, grabbing her purse and rising without another word, and praying Mother doesn't follow.

When she hits the hallway, she nearly runs smack into Anna, both of them stopping short, the motion making a bit of mimosa slosh out of the flute the younger woman is holding.

"Oops!" she exclaims with a little grimace. "I didn't get any on you, did I?"

Regina glances down, smooths a hand over her belly and offers a flustered, "No, no, I'm fine. It's fine."

"Good," Anna smiles, but there's something behind it. Sympathy, or pity, maybe? Either way, Regina's embarrassment just grows more acute. And then Anna holds the mimosa a little higher and tells Regina, "This is for you, actually. On the house."

Right. Definitely pity.

Regina takes the drink anyway, and gulps, muttering, "Thank you," and "I'm sorry about that."

"Why are you sorry?" Anna asks, baffled. "You didn't do anything; your mother was…"

She trails off then, glancing around. The hallway is empty for the moment, but they both know it wouldn't do Anna any favors to be overhead trashing a member.

"Yes, she was," Regina murmurs, and then she decides, screw it, and tips the flute back even further, chugging down the rest of the mimosa while she's out of sight and can.

"I don't know why she said what she said, but I just want you to know that I have always really admired you." Regina pauses mid-glug, and glances over at Anna. "You're so pretty, and sophisticated, and Henry's such a great kid. Please don't get me fired for saying this, but I really admire the way you put up with your mom's crap. I think you outclass her by a mile. So, free mimosa!"

It's pathetic, soaking up reassurance from a waitress who barely knows her, but Regina drinks in the compliment all the same.

She takes the last swallow of her mimosa, and then hands the flute back, offering Anna a genuinely appreciative, "Thank you. That's… very kind of you."

She reaches into her purse, then, pulling out her wallet and fishing out several bills. She holds them out to Anna, saying, "Here. For you."

"Oh, no, no, I said the mimosa was on the house," Anna protests, eyes gone wide. "And besides, that's a lot for one mimosa."

Regina smiles a little, shaking her head and saying, "It's your tip. Mother's paying the bill now, and you took my side, so you probably won't get much of one from her."

Anna says, "Oh," and gingerly takes the bills, folding them and shoving them into her pocket. "Thank you."

"It's the least I can do, considering I'm the one who cost you my father's tip."

"He's a very nice man," Anna compliments (Regina is not surprised – Daddy's generous hand on the tip line endears him to many a service person). "I don't know how they ended up together."

Regina's brows lift slightly, and Anna's eyes pop impossibly wider, one hand rising to cover her mouth as if she could shove the words back in.

She's no doubt expecting to get roasted for that little comment, but Regina just smirks, and promises, "I won't get you fired for insulting my mother, but if she heard that, she definitely would. So be careful, alright?"

Anna nods, tossing a nervous glance past Regina toward the dining room as she says, "Got it." There's an awkward moment where neither of them really knows how to move forward from here, and then Anna says, "Anyway, I just wanted to give you the drink, and tell you that you've always looked amazing to me, and maybe it takes a lot of work, I don't know, but…" She smiles a little awkwardly and then finishes, "You look great. You can, uh… go to the bathroom now."

Regina laughs a little, and nods, says, "Thank you, again," before slipping past her toward the ladies room.

She hadn't actually needed to use the toilet, but she does anyway, and then she stares at herself in the mirror while she washes her hands.

Classy and sophisticated, huh?

It had certainly been what she was going for, but as she lathers and studies herself, she only sees the flaws. Her mascara is a little clumpy on her left eye, and there's a tiny blemish on her right cheek that she'd covered with makeup but knows is there regardless. And she swears she's gotten a new wrinkle around her eyes; she needs to invest in a new eye cream, maybe, or one of the anti-aging facials at the spa. Something.

She dries her hands, steps back from the mirror, taking advantage of the empty bathroom to turn sideways and stand a little straighter, studying her profile. One hand smoothes over her belly, the muscles clenching slightly under her touch, firming up and tucking in.

She looks fine. Good, even. Thin.

And then she realizes what she's doing, really realizes, and drops her hand. She lets her belly go soft and mutters, "Stupid," as she turns for the bathroom door.

.::.

By the time she returns to the table, Regina's knees feel a little bit warm.

Her head isn't swimming by any means, but she can already feel that second hit of champagne effervescing in her brain. Maybe chugging it hadn't been the best idea.

The bill folder is sitting on the table next to Mother's elbow, her AmEx peeking out the top, and Regina itches to sneak a peek at it and find out just how much she's deigned to tip Anna. But there's absolutely no way to accomplish that subtly, so she just smooths her dress and slips into her seat as her mother heaves a huffing sigh and complains about how long it must take to pick up a check.

With their little tête-à-tête in the hallway, there's no way Anna had dropped the bill less than a couple of minutes ago, but Mother is clearly ready to be done with this little outing. Regina can't say she feels differently.

"Is there somewhere you need to be, Mother?" she asks, a bit more frostily than she'd meant to.

"Not me – you."

"Me?"

"Henry, actually," her father says, much to Regina's confusion. And then he's handing over Henry's birthday card and explaining, "We'd meant to give it to you last week, but, well…"

He doesn't need to finish that sentence, and Regina is glad he doesn't try. The last thing she needs is to incite her mother into another round about her terrible rudeness.

She passes the card over to Henry, who wastes very little time in peeling open the flap of the envelope and pulling out the folded paper inside. The card is a fairly generic "For our grandson, on his birthday," but whatever's written inside has him perking up a little and exclaiming, "Cool! Really?"

Henry looks up between his grandparents, Cora's look of pleasure is pinched just a little at the corners of her eyes, but Henry Sr.'s is genuine and warm.

"We thought perhaps you'd like to follow in your mother's footsteps," Cora tells him.

Regina frowns at that, curiosity driving her to lean over and read the card for herself, her brows lifting slowly as she sees what's written inside.

To our dear Henry –

We hope you had a wonderful party yesterday – you are so grown up and we are so proud of the young man you are becoming. We know you've admired your mother's equestrian trophies several times, and thought it was time for you to learn to ride.

For your birthday this year, we've arranged ten weeks of horseback riding lessons. We hope you enjoy them!

Love,

Grandpa Henry and Grandma Cora

It's in her father's handwriting, but she'd have known he was the one who wrote it from the content – hell, from the "grandma" before her mother's name alone. Cora had never looked forward to grandmotherhood.

"You got him riding lessons?" Regina asks her father curiously, a smile working its way onto her face.

"Every Sunday for the next ten weeks – starting today. You were supposed to know last week, but I didn't want to ruin the surprise by telling you earlier," he explains. "We thought it might be something he'd enjoy – but I know it's an added weekly commitment, so I thought maybe… I could drive him?"

Her father's hopeful expression melts her heart a little; Mother may be a frigid bitch who tries to insert herself in Regina's life at every inopportune turn, but Daddy, he just wants to help.

"We thought perhaps we could have a weekly brunch," Cora speaks up, and Regina's stomach sours. "Here, at the Club – the stable is only about twenty minutes away."

Her father rushes to trod over the idea (thank God), saying, "Or, you could just have Sunday afternoons to yourself. I'd be happy to pick him up from home, so you could spend the day running errands, or doing laundry, or…"

"Dating," Cora inserts, but Regina knows it's a pointed barb meant for Daddy and his dismissal of Cora's weekly brunch idea as much as it is for her Sahara-esque love life, so she lets it go.

She plasters on a smile that is mostly genuine, and says, "I think a little bonding time for you and Henry would be great." She turns to the younger Henry, asking, "What do you think, sweetheart?"

"I think it sounds awesome!" he agrees, beaming.

.::.

It turns out Henry's lesson is in just forty minutes, so they head straight for the valet once brunch has been paid for, and Regina honestly can't decide whose car she hopes appears first. Mother's, so she can watch her drive away and have a moment to breathe, or hers, so she can leave Cora in the dust.

Daddy wants to join them for Henry's first lesson, while her Mother could not have less interest in spending the afternoon in a barn. No surprise there – if there isn't a ribbon to be won, Mother's no fan of spending a day near the stables.

Regina is grateful at the chance for a little time alone with her father – too much time alone with just herself might let her work herself into a good brood, or push her into poor solutions to keep her mind busy. Like texting Robin, who just three minutes ago had shot her a message that read, Roland and Tuck both rolled in dog shit today. Is your day better or worse than mine so far?

She has no doubt he'd meant it to make her smile, and it had, ever so briefly. She'd turned her back slightly to hide it from her parents, shooting back a quick: Marginally better. My dog shit is only metaphorical.

She gets another from him as her car pulls up to the curb and the valet steps out with her keys. It reads: Yours smells better no doubt. Mine had to be hosed off

Regina tucks her phone into her purse and takes her keys as Henry gives Cora a hug goodbye. Regina doesn't make any move to do the same, and neither does her mMother.

Instead, Regina tips the valet, wishes him a pleasant rest of his weekend, and watches her son climb into the back seat of the car.

She does cave to a stiff, "Goodbye, Mother," unable to give Cora the cold shoulder entirely.

Cora offers her a brittle smile in return, then says almost kindly, "Enjoy the rest of your day, sweetheart."

Regina is just about to sink into her seat as well, when Daddy reaches for her elbow and asks, "Why don't you let me drive?"

Regina frowns. "I don't mind driving."

"I'm sure you don't, but you always have to drive and I know the way," he says, giving her arm a little squeeze and urging, "Relax for half an hour."

Ah. Okay. She sees what this is. The inevitable coddling that follows her mother's more temperamental outbursts.

She's not in the mood today, though, so she insists softly, "I'm fine. She's been worse."

But Daddy just hands her the little bag of leftovers and insists again, "Sweetheart, let me drive."

He's looking at her, willing her to see something. It takes a moment, but when his fingers reach out and grasp hers, squeezing them over the handle of the bag as he says, "I insist," it finally clicks.

He wants to drive so she can eat. The leftovers were meant for her.

Regina's eyes well with tears that she quickly blinks away, nodding and conceding, "Okay, you can drive. Thank you, Daddy."

The smile he gives her is just a little bit sad, but his voice is warm when he says, "Anything for you, sweetheart."

She passes him her keys, and rounds the front of her Mercedes, setting the bag of leftovers on the floor of the car while she buckles in and pops open the glove box to grab one of the few plastic-wrapped sets of disposable cutlery she keeps stashed in there.

They're driving away as she grabs the leftovers and pulls the top open – it's not much, Daddy had eaten most of his plate. But then again, Regina had cleaned hers (aside from most of that stilton), so the three pieces of shrimp and maybe half-dozen forkfuls of grits left behind are just enough food to fill her without leaving her feeling stuffed.

Knowing that doesn't help with the niggling guilt she feels – or maybe it's not so much guilt, but shame. Shame that she's a grown woman—a thirty-five year old woman—who is sitting in the front seat of her car eating food her father smuggled her right under her mother's nose.

She shouldn't have to live this way.

It's embarrassing, this secret, the way she has to twist herself in knots to avoid the sharp edge of Mother's abuse. She shouldn't have to live with it, but she does, and today she has, so she tells herself that Mother is out of sight now and she can enjoy some rich brunch fare in peace and guilt-free. (She doesn't always listen to herself, but she tries.)

She's lifted one delicious, decadent bite of grits to her mouth when Henry pipes up from the back seat, asking her curiously, "You're eating again already? We just left lunch."

The grits turn to glue on her tongue and she sets her fork down into the takeout box immediately, forcing herself to swallow down the mouthful as shame burns hot in her cheeks, wet along her lashes.

He doesn't know, couldn't know, not really, about the visceral reaction she would have to You're eating again already? after just having spent an hour around the table with her mother. He hadn't said that on purpose, hadn't said it to hurt her, at least. But for a moment, the question steals her voice away; she doesn't know how to answer, all she can think is Not him, too.

Her father doesn't miss her little moment of defeat, and much to her mortification, he calls her on it with a too-sympathetic, "Regina."

She just shakes her head, murmurs, "It's fine," and moves to close the box back up.

He says her name again, "Regina," and then Henry's worried voice comes to her from the back seat.

"Did I say something wrong?"

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Regina rakes a hand through her hair, turning her face toward the passenger door just a little to hide it from her son.

God, she's pathetic. Pathetic, and stupid, and childish, and if she's not careful, her eleven-year-old is going to see just how much. Just how bad she is at hiding, just how broken—

She thinks of the rubber band that's supposed to be around her wrist, the one she had slipped off and left on her dresser next to the pair of earrings she'd decided against this morning. The one she should be snapping like a fiend if she was going to be a good little patient. But a brunch with Mother is no place for snapping rubber bands, so she'd left it behind.

Thank God.

"You didn't say anything wrong," Daddy answers for her, and then he just makes it all worse: "Your mom didn't eat enough at brunch, so she's eating now."

Couldn't have chosen a better way to phrase that? she thinks, but all she says is a warning, "Daddy."

"He's a smart boy," Daddy argues. "He's going to see it soon, if he doesn't already."

Tears burn hot along her lashes, her guts twisting with a desperate thought that He'd better fucking not, because if her son can see the remnants of her eating disorder, she'll just about die.

"See what?" Henry asks, and Regina opens her mouth to answer, to say, Nothing, but Daddy speaks up first again.

And what he says surprises her: "Your grandmother is a bully."

Her son says, "Oh," and then, "She's mean to Mom," and Regina has to grit her teeth against a fresh wave of tears, turning her head toward the window so Henry can't see.

She didn't want him to know that, she didn't want him to see. But he's not stupid, and her mother is not subtle, and he knows. It was only a matter of time, but it rips her guts up, cracks her heart down the middle to know that she hasn't been able to protect him from this.

"Yes, she is," her father says sadly, and she wishes he wouldn't. Wishes he would just stop, but she can't tell him so without betraying her tears, and she does not want her son to know she's crying like a wounded little child because her mother is a bully.

"And your mom stood up to her today, and she should be very proud of that," Daddy continues, Regina presses her knuckles to her lips and sniffles as quietly as possible. "But it made your grandmother angry, and when she's angry, she embarrasses your mom."

"Daddy, please stop," Regina whispers, wiping as subtly as she can at the tears slipping down her cheeks.

But Henry, her sweet Henry, he just asks, "What do you mean?"

God, this is hell. This is absolute hell.

"She tries to make your mom feel bad about herself, and a lot of the time she does that by making her feel bad about the things that she eats," her father says, and God, she should just… could just… She wants to yank open this car door and barrell roll out onto the side of the freeway. She is trapped here with this conversation she never wanted to have, and could this day get any worse?

(It could; she shouldn't tempt fate.)

And then it does, because Henry asks, "Like on Mother's Day?" and Regina can't hide the sniffle anymore, her nose is too full of drippy, tear-induced snot.

Daddy shifts a little in his seat, and says, "Yes. Your mom ate less today so your grandma couldn't criticize her choices. But I knew we'd be going to the stables, and I knew your grandma wouldn't want to go with us, so I saved some of my lunch for Regina. I know she likes it."

She's wiping at tears again, her perfectly applied makeup no doubt in shambles, and she needs to stop this before Henry realizes what a wreck they've made her.

Henry says, "Oh," and then, "If Grandma's a bully, why don't you ever stop her?" and Regina decides that's enough.

Pride be damned, this conversation is over.

She wipes at her tears and sucks in a breath (her father is suddenly very quiet), then turns to face her son, and says, "Okay, enough. We're not talking about this anymore. Grandpa is right; Grandma can be a bully, and it's hurtful. And today, when you weren't there, she said something that… embarrassed me. A lot. But she's not here anymore, and the three of us are going to have a good afternoon, okay?"

Henry nods, frowning at Regina with something far too close to pity for her liking, but she forces a smile – one that becomes far more genuine when he tells her, "Well, Grandpa and I think you can eat whatever you want. So you should eat your grits before they get cold."

They're already mostly cold, but she nods anyway, and says, "Yes, I should."

Regina turns back toward the front of the car, popping open her takeout container again and forking up another bite of grits. They taste less like glue this time, but she still has to force the first tiny bite down with a thick swallow.

It's too quiet in the car all of a sudden; Daddy's motormouth has stopped running, and Henry is silent in the back seat, so Regina reaches over and punches the radio into life.

She doesn't know the song that's playing – it's something new and poppy, not really her style. But it's noise, and that's enough.

The ride to the stables isn't terribly long, and she wants to finish filling her belly before they get there, so she spears a piece of shrimp and takes a bite – and only then does she remember that the last time she ate shrimp she'd ended up a miserable, puking mess. The memory has cold sweat breaking out along her spine, and once again she has to work to swallow. The shrimp is good – objectively, she knows that. It's well-cooked, and well-seasoned, and she has no doubt that the Club has good food safety practices.

Knowing all of that doesn't stop her from freeing the rest of her shrimp from the fork, and pushing it and its little friends to the edge of the container.

She can live without the shrimp.

.::.

"I really wish you hadn't done that," Regina tells her father a short while later as they lean against the rail of a paddock in the warm afternoon sun. She's traded her heels for the flats she keeps in her trunk for just such moments of need, and has plopped a pair of sunglasses over eyes that were thankfully not too ruined by her little episode in the car.

Thank God for waterproof mascara.

"Done what?" her father asks, and Regina scowls slightly.

She watches Henry perched on the back of a dapple gray mare, looking more and more comfortable with each passing second—a sight that should warm her, but she's too preoccupied. Tack this onto the list of things Mother has stolen from her.

"Said what you did in the car. About Mother," she explains. "I don't… talk to Henry about those things. I try to keep him insulated from them."

"Regina, he's a smart boy," Daddy says. "Try as you might, he'll know when things aren't right. Children know when the adults around them aren't getting along. Didn't you?"

Regina exhales deeply and offers a little nod.

"I suppose," she concedes. She keeps her gaze on Henry, gives him a little smile and wave when he looks toward her and flashes a happy grin. Then she says, "But 'unhappy' seemed to be the default in our home. It was impossible not to notice that things weren't… good."

She hears the words as she's saying them and worries for a second that they'll upset Daddy, but he just hums his agreement. There's a regretful sort of sadness in his voice when he says, "You're right. And I'm sorry about that."

"I used to wonder why one of you didn't just leave," she confesses softly, grateful for the shades ensuring she doesn't have to look her father in the eye for that one. "It didn't seem like you were… in love. You were never affectionate in private, you never said 'I love you,' and then you started sleeping in separate rooms, and… It never seemed that our home had much love in it."

"It did, once," he tells her, his voice hushed just like hers. This is maybe far too private a discussion for a place this public, but Henry and his riding instructor are several yards away, and the light breeze is blowing toward Regina and her father rather than away, so they have some privacy. "There was a time where I loved your mother very much. But it… faded."

"Why?" she wonders. "What happened?"

Regina turns her head then, watches her father take in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He looks suddenly very old, or at least… burdened.

"You were born," he says, and it suckerpunches the air right out of Regina. She'd always wondered, but to hear him say it…

The sensation lasts mere seconds, before he continues, "And it was the happiest day of my life. You were the most precious thing I had ever seen. And for the first few years, things were good. But as you got older, she got… well, the way she is. When you were three, she gave you a smack one day, right across the face. You'd snuck a cookie."

Regina's eyes well with sudden, hot tears. Of course it was a fucking cookie. God forbid she eat.

"You screamed and screamed, your little cheek all red. Her ring left this small purple bruise; I'll never forget it."

Regina blinks away her tears, and watches him speak. He seems far off, lost in a memory that makes his frown lines deepen.

"I told her," he continues, "that if she ever raised a hand to you like that again, I would call the police on her myself."

"You did?" she asks him, surprised by the breathless wobble of her voice. Daddy had stood up to Mother now and then, sure, but she can't imagine him threatening to have her arrested. That was never his style.

"I did," he tells her. "She said I'd never dare."

Regina rolls her eyes. "Of course she did."

He smiles wryly at her. "She's never liked being challenged, your mother. But I told her I was serious. I said a spanking was one thing, but if she left bruises… I don't know if she ever believed me, but I told her to find another way to discipline you or I'd make sure she never got the chance again."

Regina can't help her hollow scoff, and her mutter of, "Well, she certainly found other ways…"

Her father makes a noise, and says, "I knew when I fell for her that she was tenacious, determined, even ruthless when she thought she needed to be. It was how she'd gotten herself where she was in life, and I had admired most of those things in her. I didn't see the darker side of them until it was too late. I didn't know how cruel she could be until we had you. She loves you, I know she does, sweetheart. But she…"

Regina shakes her head, tells him, "She says she does, and I want to believe it, but… she has a funny way of showing it. The things she's said, and done… I could never treat Henry that way. Never."

"You're a better mother than she was," Daddy tells her easily, and she can't help but smile. 'Better than Mother' isn't exactly a high bar to jump, but it's been the goal of her life with Henry. "You want Henry to be loved, and happy. I see it every day. She always wanted you to be perfect."

"And nobody is," Regina mutters. "Least of all children, who are still learning how to be people."

"Your mother didn't get much of a chance to be a child," he says, and Regina turns her gaze back to Henry and his horse. If Daddy is going to make excuses for Mother again, today, Regina doesn't particularly want to watch him do it. "She was so young when her mother died, and her father was a worthless drunk. Everything she had, she built herself, but she was never proud of it. She's always been ashamed – that she didn't start with more. That she wasn't born into the life she wanted – but you, you were. She wanted her perfect home, and her perfect family, her perfect daughter. I watched her use her mean streak to get it, and it… choked out all the love I'd had for her."

She looks at her father, then. She'd almost forgotten what had gotten them onto this topic in the first place. Loving Mother, and then not.

"I couldn't love anyone who hurt you the way she did," her father says, and Regina presses her lips together and takes a deep breath as she feels the tears threaten to surface again.

She shouldn't say the thought that's on her mind. Shouldn't voice it, because it's unkind, and it's… it's over, it doesn't matter now. But it's there, on the tip of her tongue, and she lets it loose anyway: "You couldn't love her, but you couldn't leave? You just… If you hated it so much, and if you couldn't stop her, then… why did we stay?"

"I thought about leaving," he confesses, and it's cold comfort. She'd wondered, all these years, if he'd ever considered just walking. Just leaving. She's not sure whether she feels better or worse that he thought about it, and stayed anyway. "I'd hoped that as you got older, easier to handle, she'd change. Get better. When she didn't, I thought about leaving, but… I knew she wouldn't give you up without a fight."

Regina scoffs. "Please. I'm sure she'd have been glad to be rid of me. I was always such a disappointment."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," Daddy tells her. "What kind of a mother walks away from her own child? What would people think, if she lost you? If you lived with me instead of her?"

"You think she'd have fought for me for, what? Appearances' sake?" As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she realizes that yes, of course she would. "Nevermind. Nothing matters to Mother more than appearances."

Henry nods, and says, "And mothers get custody far more often than fathers. Outwardly, she looked like a perfectly fine parent, and she doesn't believe the way she treats you is wrong, she never has. It would have been on me, and you, to prove she wasn't fit. I didn't want to put you through that. Your mother is not above winning by whatever means necessary – bribery, favors, threats. I knew how ugly a custody battle could get; I didn't want that for you. And I wasn't going to leave you alone with her. Never. She was bad enough with me there, I couldn't imagine the hell she'd have put you through if I left you behind."

"So you stayed… for me?"

"Everything I do is for you," he tells her, and Regina laughs wetly. She doesn't really know what else to do.

How is one supposed to react to being told that their father stayed in a loveless marriage to a heartless bitch, just so that she wouldn't be hurt even more. Mirroring threads of guilt and resentment twist and tangle and weave their way around Regina's heart, and she presses a hand over the needle-prick ache of them.

"You should have tried," she whispers. "They talk to kids, don't they? Ask them what they want, consider their wishes? I could have asked to be with you."

"Maybe," her father says regretfully. "But what if I'd lost? And anyway, by the time you were that old… Well, you were sick, and there were—" he glances away, his mouth tightening for a moment "—other things. She was at her worst in your teen years, and I was so scared for you. You were wasting away in front of my eyes, pushing yourself so hard to please her, and I thought… If I lost you then, I'd lose you for good."

Regina takes a deep breath, pushing away the memories of being fifteen and hungry. Fifteen and obsessed. Fifteen and trying so damn hard to win her mother's approval that she couldn't think straight anymore.

Still, "You'd have won, then. When I was fifteen, there wasn't a sitting judge that wouldn't have let you have me, the way I was. The things I told my therapist, I was honestly surprised they never tried to take me away. Sometimes I wanted them to."

"They raised concerns," he says, and her brows lift slightly. Interesting. "Your mother was convinced that the doctors were quacks – she didn't like what they had to say about your health, mental or physical. She wanted to pull you out of treatment, said we could handle everything just fine on our own, without the... embarrassment of all that."

He says "embarrassment" carefully, like he's wincing around the word, like he doesn't want to hurt her with it. She doesn't know why – it's not as if Mother hadn't made her mortification over Regina's illness perfectly clear. She'd hardly blame Daddy for repeating history as Mother remembers it.

"You didn't," Regina points out needlessly. "She hated it, I knew she did. But I was at every appointment, faithfully, until… I was better."

"Well, I told your mother there wasn't a chance in hell that we were stopping any recommended portion of your treatment," Daddy tells her, and she smiles. Of course he did – that doesn't surprise her. He may not have spared her the damage of Mother's abuse, but he was always there to pick up the pieces. It comes as no surprise that he had ensured she got patched up right when everything truly fell apart. "It was a… difficult time for us. Your mother and me. But I had enough leverage to make sure we got you the help you needed, for as long as you needed it."

Regina pushes down at the guilt that bubbles up at the words difficult time. Her illness isn't her fault, the help she needed was not her fault. She's had that drilled into her again and again and again over the years. Still, she's very much aware that, "That's when you moved into the guest room – when I was in treatment. I remember that. Something broke, and… it never got fixed."

Daddy still sleeps in the guest room. His room, now. For the last twenty years, it's been his. But she remembers, vividly, the stony silence in their home that year. The quiet tension around the dinner table. The slow migration of Daddy's things from the master closet to the guest one. The way her parents avoided each other, or glowered, or made a point not to glower.

Knowing that Mother had wanted her out of therapy, and Daddy had wanted her very much in therapy, she can't help but wonder if that had been the final burden that their marriage just couldn't bear the weight of.

"My treatment… was the final nail in our coffin, wasn't it?" she asks carefully, trying to keep her voice even, and steady, and adult.

"God, no," her father says, surprising her. "No, sweetheart, it wasn't you. It was…" For a moment he looks like he's wrestling over something, his brow pinching, his eyes searching her face. And then he just says, "It was between your mother and me."

"You don't have to spare me, Daddy," Regina insists. "It was twenty years ago; you can admit it. I just wish that in the time since then you'd—"

She's about to say that she wishes he had found a way to free himself at the very least, to leave her once Regina was gone. To not waste his life with someone he didn't want to be with just because ten-year-old Regina needed a protector.

But he interrupts her with a blurted, "She had an affair, Regina," that stops her dead in her tracks.

For a second, she stares at her father, bewildered, and then she simply says, "What?"

Daddy takes a deep breath, and squints off into the distance as if he's trying to see for miles. If Regina wasn't so dumbstruck, she'd probably be thinking that he's just stalling for time, but right now, she's not thinking at all.

An affair?

"That's why I moved rooms," he says, finally, what feels like an eternity later. (It's not, it's less than a minute, but it feels… God, it feels like forever, with the whickering of the horse to her right, the rustle of breeze through the nearby trees, the steady voice of Henry's instructor wafting over in patches when the wind blows just right.) "There was… a man. And I found out. That year when you were in treatment, I found out. That was the... final nail. Not you."

"She…" Regina's not sure why she's so stunned, but she is. There'd never been much in the way of love between her parents, but she'd always assumed there was fidelity. She's floored, scouring her memory for any trace of this, of an affair, of another man, someone who had been around, someone Mother had talked about many times, but… there's nothing. "Who was it?"

Daddy shakes his head, says far too quickly that, "It doesn't matter who. It wasn't you that destroyed our family, that's what matters."

"Was it... Did I ever meet him?"

Her father says her name, "Regina," in a way that actually sounds a bit pained, and she reminds herself that they're talking about his wife cheating on him, and maybe she should try to be just a little more sensitive. Except, they're also talking about an affair that she's heard nothing about in twenty years, despite the fact that it nearly ended their already feeble marriage.

The realization that Mother cheated on him and he stayed for her, to protect her, because Mother was… Mother… makes her feel vaguely ill. Nausea rises up her middle and she presses a hand to it, shaking her head and asking him, "Daddy, if she had an affair, why didn't you go? You could have left her, you had good reason, and I could have asked to stay with you. I was old enough, I could have spoken for myself."

"They wouldn't have let me have you," he tells her, and that's just ridiculous.

Ridiculous, and cowardly, and she scoffs and tells him, "You don't know that. Of course they would have. She was an unfaithful wife and a damaging mother; they would have given me to you, but you never gave them the chance."

She's angry all of a sudden. Shouldn't be, maybe, but God… things could have been easier – even if it had just been for a little while, a year or two, things could have been easier. And she'd be able to cut her mother off for stretches of time now without having to worry about not seeing Daddy, about…

"I wanted to leave," he hisses at her, and she remembers that they need to keep their voices down. "I tried, but your mother wouldn't have it."

Regina scoffs and says, "I don't think the dumpee really gets a say – believe me, I know, I've been dumped. Mother couldn't have forced you to stay if you wanted to go."

He gives her a face – one she rarely sees on him. The one that says Listen to yourself.

"We have a prenup," he says to her, calmly, but she can hear the edge of nervous temper under his voice. Daddy never does like when his dander is up. "And like most prenups, it has a fidelity clause. Your mother wasn't entitled to anything if our marriage ended due to her infidelity. She'd have gotten nothing in the divorce." Regina's frown deepens, and then he poses a question: "How do you think your mother felt about that?"

Realization prickles over her like cold raindrops, and she answers, "She'd find that unacceptable." Her father nods, and Regina exhales heavily, not entirely sure she wants an answer (but needing one anyway) when she asks, "What did she threaten you with?"

Her father looks over toward Henry, doesn't answer her right away. This time she's aware enough to know he's stalling, so she urges, "There were threats, right? It must have been something good – you had your out, and you know I'm right. So what did she say to convince you that you couldn't go?"

It takes him a little while to answer her, and Regina feels anxious nerves wriggling under her skin, up her spine, burrowing into her stomach and making it feel hot and uncomfortable.

But finally, he tells her, "You were so sick, then. And your mother, she wouldn't hear of inpatient treatment. No hospitals; people would talk." He laughs softly then, but it's bitter. "People talked anyway. We had you with the best therapist, highly recommended – and used by other families in our social circle. The nutritionist, too. Your treatment was a poorly kept secret, but how you got there…" Daddy shakes his head, breathes deeply, and says, "Your mother threatened to tell people it was my fault."

"Your… fault?" Regina asks, shaking her head, brow furrowing in confusion. "Daddy, how could it be your fault? And who would believe that? You were always the one to coddle me, to encourage me toward more decadent food, or try to get me to share your dessert. It drove me crazy, but… nobody would believe that you twisted me up that much, Daddy."

His, "Oh, they might," is a dark mutter that has Regina doubling down on her argument.

"Daddy, you were never the one that pushed me."

"I know that," he tells her. "But that's… not what she'd have said."

"Then what?"

He looks at her, then, pain and indecision in his eyes, and he says her name that way he does, all regret and hesitation.

"Daddy, you have to tell me," she insists. "If you don't, I'll spend all my time wondering, and I'll try to get it out of you again later. If you tell me, that's it. It'll be out, and done, and we can leave it in the past where it belongs."

Her father sighs heavily, and stares down at the railing beneath his squeezing fingers. Then he speaks very carefully, very evenly, and rips the bottom out from under her world: "Your mother said if I tried to file for divorce, she would claim I had been… inappropriate with you. That that was what had driven you to such extremes. Even if I denied it, even if you did, the authorities would be obligated to investigate if the claim was made during custody proceedings, and whether it was true or not…" He looks up at her, then, but he's blurry through the hot tears lining her lashes. "You know the people we know. It wouldn't have mattered if it was true. Once the rumors had started, I'd have been ruined. I couldn't leave her, and I couldn't try to take you."

Regina blinks, and wipes at the tears that fall, then rubs her hand over her mouth and tells herself to breathe.

She feels sick.

She feels bile rising up, up, and has to swallow it down, down, because she can't very well vomit right here in the grass.

"She was…" Her voice is breathy, thin; she can hear the way she gasps into it as she whispers a horrified, "She was going to say you m-molested me?"

Her father nods; Regina lets out a hysterical little laugh.

Her mother is insane. I mean, she'd always known, but this… this is just beyond the pale. And this has been just… just sitting there, festering, for two decades. These secrets, and these lies, and did she ever really know her parents at all? There was a whole other life, a whole game of strategy, of war, of embattled territory, going on right under her nose and she'd never even seen it.

She'd never seen it, but she'd caused it, and the realization has her dropping her head to her crossed hands (they're gripping the fencing so tightly she can feel it digging into her palms), just so she can count to twenty and steady her breathing and not throw up.

This is all because of her. Mother would never have been able to get away with this if she hadn't been sick. Daddy could have left years earlier if he hadn't been trying to protect her.

But there she'd been, ruining everyone's lives and her own along with it, all because she was too weak-willed to survive her mother.

"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry," her father says, one warm hand settling on her shoulders. She rolls it immediately to push him away, and he draws his hand back. She doesn't want to be touched right now, doesn't want anyone to…

And then it occurs to her that maybe drawing back from him after he admits he was blackmailed into a marriage by threats of claiming he'd touched her might send the wrong messages, so she lifts her head, looks at him, and says, "No, I'm sorry. If I hadn't been sick—"

But Daddy will have none of it.

He shushes her, and reaches out again, pulling her in close and hugging her tightly. Regina rests her chin on his shoulder and hugs him back as he murmurs assurances that it isn't her fault, it was never her fault. That she can't blame herself for Mother's selfishness, or her manipulation.

Regina's brain feels like a swarm of angry, buzzing bees, thoughts whirring so quickly that they all bleed together, but the one thing she knows is this:

She's not speaking to her mother again any time soon.

.::.

That sick feeling lingers with Regina for the rest of the afternoon and evening. She thinks she hides it well, is fairly certain Henry never does see through her carefully held together Mom mask, but inside, she's a roiling mess of nauseated disgust.

Dinner is a battle.

She doesn't want Henry to know, doesn't want him to see (how many dinners like this did Daddy have, she wonders? How often did he try to hide from her how fucked up her own mother was?), but her stomach feels oily and hot and it pitches and rocks.

She makes chicken and rice, eats at the countertop while she talks to Henry all about his riding lesson, pretending to be very involved in reorganizing one of the kitchen cabinets, when really she is just trying to disguise how little she's eating. She can't eat with a stomach this sour, every bite sticks in her throat, gets forced down with a heavy swallow past the knot of anxiety that has taken up residence there.

She keeps hearing it in her head—Had been... inappropriate with you—cannot shake the memory of it, the lead weight of it on her soul. She feels dirty, feels like Mother has made her dirty.

She wants to cry.

She wants to throw things.

She wants to scream.

Wants to just bury her face in a pillow and yell until she doesn't feel this sickly rage in her gut, or call her mother and rip her a new one or twelve about the audacity of blaming Daddy for her illness when it was Mother who twisted her into this… this… defective, neurotic person.

She wants to do all of that, but she has an eleven-year-old who spent his afternoon on the back of a dapple gray horse, and he is happy, excited, talks about the saddle, and the reins, and the trotting, and the new riding boots Grandpa had had his teacher pick up for him so he could ride today, and how he got to brush the horse, and he's going to learn to clean her hooves, and how maybe someday he can jump like she did when she was young.

Regina forces a smile, and a, "If you like it enough, sweetheart, of course you'll learn," but all she can think of is riding pants that slipped at bony hips, and that day she won a blue ribbon but stumbled as she dismounted because she was so fucking hungry, and Mother threatened to blame it all on Daddy, and he just took it to protect her, and she wants to cry, and scream, and throw things.

She makes it through Henry's bedtime, and half a chicken breast. A little bit of rice. Waits until her son is asleep, and then she slips into leggings and a sports bra, and she runs.

She has to run, she has to run this out, because there is all this pent up junk inside of her, and it cannot live there, it cannot stay there, she will suffocate. It's climbing her spine, it's scratching its claws against her vertebrae, she cannot succumb to two anxiety attacks in as many days, but her mother is a monster, how could she have done this?

And how did Regina not know? How did they keep this from her? Her whole life, the last twenty years, everything she knew, every time she stepped into that house, every moment with her mother, this thing was there, this secret, this dirty, cruel thing.

How dare she?

How dare she do this, to him, to them, to Daddy and to her, how dare she trap them like this?

So she runs out the anger, or she tries to, but she's alone now, finally, for the the first time since she was dealt this body blow, and her mind is racing, her heart is racing, it's only been five minutes, but it's racing, racing, she's panting, and—she realizes—crying.

There are tears on her cheeks, squeezing a fist around her throat and choking her, and her eyes blur, her chest feels tight, and she stumbles a little on the belt.

Shit. Shit.

Regina fumbles half-blind as she stabs off the power to the treadmill, her pulse pounding in her ears, bile rising, shaky and hot and foreboding up under her sternum.

Inappropriate with you and I could never love anyone who hurt you and blackmail are finally getting a good grip on her guts, and she regrets dinner now, because there's something in her stomach. It may not be much, but it's enough that she can feel it rising, enough that she is turning tail for the door of the den as sweat breaks out along her hairline. She's been pushing this down since Daddy told her this afternoon, and she knows that she's not going to be able to fight her body on it much longer.

She's forgotten about her phone for a second, her headphones, and she takes two steps and has to swing it up by the cord, gathering her phone in shaky hands as she makes a mad dash for the powder room. She drops everything to the floor with a clatter, hits her knees in front of the toilet bowl, her head swimming, her chest tight, bile rising, rising, rising until she is bent over and puking up that little bit of chicken and rice.

She retches, and coughs, and sputters, and her heart is still racing, her chest still feels tight.

Even when her anxious stomach has finished its revolt, her heart gallops, and anxiety is a corset around her middle, the stays pulled tighter and tighter with every passing second.

Shit, shit, shit.

She tries to talk herself out of it, scoots back until her back is against the wall and shuts her eyes and tries to think of five things she can hear. But Henry is in bed and she's practically alone in the house, there aren't five things to hear.

She needs something to focus on, something other than her hitching breaths.

She knows it's weakness when she reaches for her phone, but her fingers are shaky, she needs to calm down and it's the first thing she can think of to bring herself some relief.

.::.

Marian would kill him for this.

Marian would kill him, but Marian isn't here, so as Robin lights up a fresh joint and sits back with a bowl of cereal and the remote, he resolves not to feel the least bit guilty about it. Roland is snug in his new big-boy bed, sleeping peacefully in a corner of Robin's room. And Robin has had a rather long and trying day of parenting, so if he wants to get a little buzzed while watching old episodes of Top Gear and eating Fruity Pebbles, he's going to do just that.

He takes a long inhale, and a slow exhale – and nearly coughs when the buzzing of his phone against the table startles him.

As he reaches forward to grab it, he's almost certain it's going to be Marian asking to FaceTime Roland to sleep or some such thing. Because the universe is laughing at him today, and she has a knack for showing up when he's most ill fit for her presence.

Thankfully, it's not her. It's a text from Regina: Is Roland still up?

Robin frowns, and shoots back a quick, No, he's out for the night

His phone buzzes again almost immediately, another message from her: Can I come over?

Can she come over, alone, once she's made sure his son is asleep? Interesting.

Robin tells himself not to get his hopes up, and shoots back, Of course. Always.

Then he reaches forward and stubs out his joint in the ashtray on the far side of the coffee table, before tucking it out of sight on the dusty-magazine-and-coloring-book-littered shelf below.

She's at his door in minutes.

Robin mutes the TV and rises to greet the ringing doorbell before she presses it again and sets Tuck barking in a way that'll wake Roland.

Whatever hopes he'd had that she might be here for a social call are dashed as soon as he sees her. She's somehow both pale and flushed at the same time, her hair tousled, and she's in workout gear, just leggings and one of those bra tops, her belly all bare and tempting (he tells himself to stop being a wanker, and focus on the arms she has wrapped around her middle and the way her clenched fists are trembling).

Robin reaches out a hand to her shoulder, guiding her into the house and sending up a prayer of thanks that John is out for the night, because something is clearly wrong, and he knows Regina well enough to know she wouldn't want another set of eyes on her when she's all fraught like this.

Her shoulders are hitching under his palm as she sucks in shaky, uneven breaths, and her voice is far from steady when she admits pitifully, "I had a really bad day."

Anger burns hot in his gut, a fiery hatred for a certain Cora Mills and whatever the hell she'd said or done to set Regina off this way. Whatever it was, he'll do his damnedest to counteract it. Will cover her in compliments and soft touches until she forgets every word of verbal violence done to her, and he's going to start right now.

He draws her in close, wraps his arms around her shoulders, and murmurs, "It's alright, love; it's over now."

It doesn't surprise him when she breaks loose a sob, or when those clenched fists move from her belly to the back of his t-shirt, gripping there as she leans into him and lets the dam break. She's shaking, and it infuriates him, has him running one hand in slow passes over the length of her back and shushing her gently as they stand there and rock ever so slightly.

"I had to hold it all in because of H-Henry." Her voice is high-pitched, squeezed through a throat thick with tears as she mutters into his neck, "But he w-went to bed and now I c-can't breathe, and I'm sorry, I just… I can't breathe, and I need… I had a really bad—"

Robin shushes her again gently, presses a kiss to her brow (it's sweaty, but the smooth skin over her spine isn't), and asks softly, "What can I do?"

"I need to— I can't— I can't focus, I can't breathe…"

She's hyperventilating, he realizes. Those short hitching breaths are pulling in too much air, not letting out, and she's pressing a hand to her sternum now, and rubbing it between them, and he needs to make it better for her, but he doesn't really know how.

But this isn't new for her, he's gathered that much. It's happened before, it happened just yesterday. So he asks, "How can I help you breathe, love? How can I help you focus?"

Her answer doesn't make any sense to him: "Five, four, three, two, one."

"What?"

"It's a— It's a relaxation technique," she explains, pressing her face into his shoulder for a second and then lifting it to continue, "Five things you can hear, f-four you can touch, three you can see, and two you can smell."

"And one is… taste?" he guesses. All five senses accounted for, right?

Regina nods, and tells him, "It h-helps you focus outward, away from the anxiety, but I—" She tears up again, a whine at the edge of her voice when she says, "It's too quiet at home; I couldn't hear five things, and I can't think, my mind is racing."

No shit.

"Okay, alright," he soothes, leading her into the living room and guiding her toward the couch. "Sit; we'll get through it."

She settles into the corner, her fists balled tightly in her lap as she continues to struggle to find an easy breath, muttering another apology.

"Don't apologize," he assures her, reaching over subtly and pressing the mute button on the remote to bring the TV back to life as he sits right beside her (maybe it's cheating, but he'll cheat if it'll help her calm down), urging her close again as he encourages, "You start with things you can hear, right?"

Regina nods and closes her eyes, her brows pinching.

"The TV," she says, immediately, and then she's scowling even harder, one of her hands unclenching and sliding blindly over until it bumps his thigh, her fingers spreading over the soft material of his sweats and gripping there.

"I'm right here, babe," he murmurs, and she nods again, tries to suck a deep breath in and out, but it's still a bit shaky and rushed.

Her teeth bite into her lower lip for a second, and then she winces, barely more than a whisper when she requests, "Touch me. Please, touch me? It's g-grounding. I'm sorry."

He shushes her gently again and reaches for her, draws her knees up against his lap and her head down against his shoulder again. Touching her is one request he has no problem fulfilling.

"Stop apologizing, love," he chides kindly. "Just tell me four more things you can hear."

Regina nods again, and her breath washes against his collar in unsteady passes as she tries to come up with more responses. Robin waits her out, letting one hand trace what he hopes are soothing trails along the outside of her thigh, his fingers pressing firmly over her spandex-covered skin. His other hand slides up into her hair, fingertips kneading in dark tresses as another attempt to soothe.

"Your fingers scratching my scalp," is her next answer, and he murmurs, Good, three more, and gets, "Your voice." A few seconds later, "Tuck's collar," as the dog comes trotting in from wherever he'd been hiding.

"One more," Robin murmurs, lips against her brow.

It takes a second, but she answers, "My breathing."

Well, there we go. Five down, four to go.

And it's, "Four things you can…" Shit, he can't remember the order. "...see?"

"Touch," she corrects him, and Robin Ahs, and lets the hand on her leg swoop over her knee and down her calf, then back up. "Your shirt," she starts. And then, "The couch."

A wet nose makes itself known, he watches her startle slightly as Tuck noses against her ankle, then gives her a little lick there before he looks at Robin with worried eyes. One of Regina's hands drops blindly to the dog's head, scratching it restlessly as she says, "Tuck…" then repeats herself: "Your shirt, the couch, Tuck…"

"One more," he urges softly. "Focus on what you can feel…"

Her breathing is starting to slow down, steadying out. The more she tries to focus, the more it relaxes, so he lets her take her time, doesn't push. Finally she murmurs, "I can feel my chest loosening," lifting her head and asking, "Can that count?"

Robin smiles at her, and shrugs, and says, "You know the rules; I don't. Do you want it to count?"

She nods, and says, "I do," and that's that.

"Then it counts," he says, and then, "Now three you can see, yeah?"

Regina nods, and easily answers, "You," then looks to her left and smirks. He's not sure he's ever been happier to see her smirk at him,

And then she teases shakily, "Cereal for dinner, huh?" and Robin lets go of some of his worry for her. If she's sassing him, she'll be alright.

"I had dinner with Roland, this is just a snack," he retorts, still rubbing his thumb along her knee as she wraps her arms around her middle, and gives her last two answers.

"Your cereal bowl. And the remote."

"Smell is next?"

"Mmhmm," Regina answers. She's calmer now. Those hitching breaths have evened out.

"Your cologne," is her first offering, before she breathes deeply, a slow inhale, and then tilts her head and gives him a quizzical, "Is that… pot?"

Busted.

Robin smiles sheepishly and reaches for the ashtray he'd tucked away, his snuffed joint still resting on it.

Regina lifts one accusatory brow and asks him, "Are you getting high with your son in the house?"

"No," he draws out. "I was having a bit of a smoke with my son in the house. And besides, I'd just lit it up when you called. I had one toke and then put it out."

She snorts a little, shaking her head at him, and it occurs to Robin that she's stopped shaking, that she's breathing normally again. It seems her little trick really does work.

And because she seems to be feeling better, he feels safe going for the joke, teasing her with, "Maybe you should try a little – help you mellow out."

Regina scoffs, predictably, telling him, "I don't do drugs."

"Neither do I," he shrugs. "It's just weed."

"Which is an illegal drug," she points out.

Robin rolls his eyes, and tells her, "Semantics. And you still have to tell me what you can taste."

Regina frowns a little, swallows slightly, and admits sheepishly, "Vomit."

Well, that goes right ahead and pops their little moment of levity, doesn't it.

"Acute anxiety sometimes makes me throw up," she whispers, her gaze dropping down into her palms, which now rest limply on her thighs between them. She's ashamed of it, he realizes, and his heart aches for her. "And I didn't think… I couldn't breathe, and I needed someone to… focus on. I needed to get out of the house; I didn't want Henry to find me the way I was. I should have brushed." One hand presses to the bare skin of her belly, then slides to wrap her arm around her middle as she mutters sheepishly, "And put on a shirt."

Robin leans in and presses a kiss to her brow. He probably shouldn't, but he can't help it when she looks so sad and self-loathing.

"There's mouthwash in the upstairs loo," he offers. "Under the sink. If you want. And Roland's asleep, but if you're quiet, you can grab a t-shirt from my chest – second drawer down."

Her lips curve up in something that's almost a smile, and she bobs her head again, murmurs, "Thank you." And then, "But I should go. I shouldn't have—"

"Nonsense," he dismisses. "Stay a while. If you go home, you'll just think too much."

Her gaze flicks up to his at that, a little bit guarded all of a sudden. "Yes," she admits. "Probably. But Henry is home alone."

"You locked the door?" he asks, and she nods. "Set the alarm?" Another nod. "Then he's safe as houses. Stay here for a bit and relax."

One of her brows lifts slowly, and she asks haughtily, "And smoke with you?"

"Only if you want," he answers easily. "I don't have to."

When her gaze strays to the ashtray and lingers there thoughtfully, Robin realizes she's actually considering it. That's unexpected. He's more than willing to share (he actually contributed to this batch, so it doesn't feel so much like nicking it from John), but he hadn't expected her to take him up on it.

"It's been a long while since my anxiety was this bad," she admits quietly. "It fades, like now, but it feels… close to the surface. My mind is all…" Regina breathes in and out, half-glances toward his face but doesn't quite make it there, landing on his t-shirt instead and lingering. "There's too much in there. I can't get quiet." She laughs a little at herself, shakes her head, and her voice is harder as she says, "But I also can't get high at the neighbor's while my son sleeps alone at home."

"We don't have to get high," he offers gently. "Just a few puffs to mellow out. And Henry's fine; you're right next door. He'll call if he can't find you."

One of her brows lifts skeptically. "Is it going to mellow me out or make me more anxious? Because I had some pot in college that just made me paranoid, and that's the last thing I need tonight."

Robin grins, teasing, "I knew you had a shady past in there somewhere," and then assuring her, "This is good stuff; it's very mellow. I promise."

"You really think it'll help?"

"Only one way to find out," Robin offers. She chews her lip and considers for a minute, but when she doesn't come to a decision, Robin gives her an out. He scratches lightly at her spandex-covered knee and urges, "Why don't you go rinse your mouth, grab a shirt, and have a little think. When you come back down, we can light up for a few minutes, or we can just watch some telly, or talk…"

He ducks his head a little to catch her eyes, and says, "Whatever you need."

He can still see the last sharp bits of anxiety fraying her edges, but she manages a little smile, a soft, "Okay."

And then she takes a deep breath, and stands, and he watches her head for the stairs.

.::.

She finds the mouthwash under the sink, in a cluttered collection of toiletries, and extra toilet paper rolls, and toilet bowl cleaner. She itches to straighten everything, to sort it by use, at the very least—no, to stand everything up at the very least—but she tells herself it's not her mess and not her problem, and screws the cap off the Listerine.

It's sharp and minty, and she swishes it until her gums tingle and her lips burn. She's not stupid.

Well, she is stupid, but she's self-aware. Self-aware, and anxious, and needy, and she'd seen the way he was trying not to look at her bare skin earlier.

Coming here when she's like this was not the smartest idea, and she has a good idea of where it will end up. Especially if she loses every last one of her marbles and smokes pot with him.

So she swishes that mouthwash thoroughly, ensuring that when she eventually kisses him senseless, he'll taste fresh mint and not bitter revelations.

She resolutely avoids the mirror over the sink until after she's spit and rinsed, but she catches her reflection as she wipes her mouth on a towel that probably needs to be laundered, and winces.

She looks like shit.

Her eyes are a little red, her skin a little blotchy (she hates when the anxiety makes her flush, hates the uneven way it sometimes fades), and she looks… unkempt.

She combs fingers through her hair in an attempt to smooth it, licks both her index fingers and rubs at the last vestiges of mascara and eyeliner that have smeared a little beneath her lower lashes. She can't do much else, and the anxiety whispers to her that she doesn't have to worry about kissing him inappropriately, because he's not going to want her looking like this.

And then she gives that anxiety a mental smack, because of course he will, he's Robin. She could show up here after a Carrie-at-the-prom sort of meltdown and he'd probably just tell her red was her color and offer her a clean shirt.

Speaking of...

There's not much more to be done in the bathroom, so she squints to shut out the sight of the mess and tucks the mouthwash back where she found it, then turns out the bathroom light and heads for Robin's room.

It takes her three steps down the hallway before she realizes she doesn't know which room is his. The layout is much like her own place, though, and so she looks from door to door. John would have the master, so Robin is probably…

She hazards a guess on the room closest to her, turning the knob as silently as she can and easing the door open to let the hall light creep in and illuminate the space beyond. The light stretches across the floor and settles across a small bed with a tiny bare foot peeking out from beneath the covers.

Regina smiles at the sight – jackpot.

She leaves the door open for light and slips into his bedroom, glancing around for his dresser. It's on the far wall, on the other side of an unmade bed, but there's something she needs to do first.

Regina tiptoes carefully over toward the toddler bed along the other wall, unable to keep her smile from spreading at the sight of Roland's mop of curls, the curve of his cheek, the way his chubby little fingers clutch his stuffed monkey to his chest. She reaches down carefully to grasp his rogue foot, gently shifting it further toward the center of the bed and gingerly adjusting his blanket to cover it.

He doesn't make so much as a peep, so Regina dares a soft brush of her fingers through his curls before she leaves him in search of a shirt.

She feels a little bit like an intruder in Robin's space, even though she's been invited. And turnabout is fair play, right? He's been in her bedroom – more than once. So she doesn't rush, squints into the darkness to try to make out the color of his bedspread (it's dark, blue or black, maybe, and she thinks it has thin stripes running through it, but the light isn't really reaching this far…), and then strangles a hissed curse word as she trips over a shoe that's been left at the foot of the bed.

She catches herself with a palm on the mattress, rolling her eyes and cursing men who don't know how to put things away properly.

The rest of her journey is smooth sailing, though, and she runs her fingertips down the front of the dresser to find her way from the first drawer to the second. She eases it open gently, and gropes for the first soft cotton she finds, pulling it out and hoping it's a shirt.

It is, so she pulls it over her head and eases the drawer shut again, before creeping back toward the door.

She shuts Roland away for his hopefully peaceful night's sleep, and lets herself indulge in tugging up the soft cotton of the v-neck she's pilfered until she can tuck her nose against it and breathe in the scent of it. Detergent, and fabric softener, and a disappointing lack of Robin, but she should have expected that – it's clean, after all.

Regina tells herself not to be so sentimental and heads for the stairs.

Tuck is now sprawled across a stretch of the foyer, but she finds Robin pretty much where she left him — only he's idly rolling the joint from finger to finger now, not an apparent care in the world.

Lucky bastard.

He glances up at Regina and smiles, and her stomach wrenches hard with nerves. Jesus, what is she she doing?

But when he lifts the joint with a questioning raise of his brows, holding it out slightly toward her and asking wordlessly whether she wants to try it or not… Regina gives him a nervous smile, and nods.

This is probably a mistake, but hell, apparently so is eating French toast in public, and quite frankly, there isn't a worse mistake to be made than the one her mother made all those years ago with her father, so fuck it.

She's going to smoke some pot with the neighbor and deal with the consequences later. At least it's not going to decimate her family, or scar her son for life.

Robin grins at her and brings the joint to his lips, holding it there as he swipes a zippo from the coffee table and uses it to relight the end of the joint. Regina settles onto the couch next to him, toeing her shoes off and curling her legs up, feeling very young, and silly, and just a little rebellious.

Mother would hate this – her smoking pot with the bartender she has the hots for. With a man who is so "beneath her."

But Mother is a vindictive cow, and she doesn't get to make any more damn decisions for Regina. So she watches Robin exhale a little stream of smoke, then takes the joint when he offers it to her, drawing in a deep breath and thinking, Here goes nothing.

She brings it to her lips and inhales – smoke hitting her throat and lungs almost immediately with a startling, burning sort of irritation that makes her cough. And cough. Her eyes water, and she gasps in a breath, holding the joint out for him and coughing one last, rattling time before she looks up at him and finds him suppressing a snicker as he watches her.

Embarrassment rushes up the back of her neck and she scowls at him. "Don't laugh at me," she croaks.

"I'm not," he insists, that dirty liar. "You're cute." (Regina rolls her eyes at him.) "I thought you said you'd had pot in college."

"I did," she tells him defensively, as he takes another draw on the joint (he makes it look so easy and… cough-free) and nods doubtfully.

"Did you forget how?" he teases through held breath, and then he blows out a much thicker stream of smoke than the last time.

"No," Regina tells him, before reluctantly admitting, "I've had brownies. I never smoked."

Robin chuckles, nodding again more earnestly, before telling her, "That surprises me – you opting for edibles over something that wasn't so… decadent."

"I'd hardly call what I've had decadent," she tells him, because college-aged men don't really make the best quality baked goods in her experience, "but… I was away from my mother. I was rebelling."

He passes her the joint again, urging, "Give it another try – go easy, inhale slowly, and if it catches just try to inhale past it."

Regina swallows heavily, her throat still feels a little scratchy, but she does as he says. Holds the joint between her lips and inhales slowly, feels that tickle and forces herself to breathe deeper, lower. She manages not to cough until she's drawn it away from her mouth, and even then it's just a little thing, a tiny, smoky cough before she exhales the rest.

"Better," Robin praises, and Regina smirks at him.

"I'm not so dumb," she tells him a little tartly – mostly teasing.

But Robin's hand falls on hers, squeezing lightly as he urges, "Look at me," and when she does, "You're not dumb. You just have virgin lungs, that's all."

Regina's lips curve slightly and she sits a little straighter, tries her best to look classy and sophisticated as she tells him, "I take very good care of myself."

Robin's gaze rakes over her now-totally-covered body and says, "Oh believe me, I notice."

"I've noticed," she taunts him, before taking another slow, careful drag on the joint. She doesn't cough at all this time, much to her pleasure.

For a minute, they just do this. Sit and banter, and pass the joint back and forth. It's nice. Easy. Comfortable.

She likes being with him – a little too much maybe, but isn't this exactly what Dr. Hopper said she shouldn't feel guilty about? Seeking comfort from someone who wants to give it? It feels right – she knows it isn't right, knows that she's a grenade, that someday this dance they're doing will end up exploding in their faces and leaving them with missing limbs and gaping holes where their hearts should be.

Someday, but not today, and today has been pretty terrible for her. So she's not going to worry about someday, she's just going to worry about right now. About tonight. She's going to do something dumb, because she can, because it feels good, feels right, and everything else about today has felt so gut-wrenchingly wrong.

"I'm going to kiss you in a minute," she tells him, because there's no use pretending otherwise. Robin looks over at her, his expression an adorable mix of confusion and amusement as she explains, "I'm telling you now, so you know that I made the decision before the pot kicked in."

He smiles at that, taking back the joint when she offers it, and saying, "Ah." And then, "I see. Another thirty-second friendly snog, then?"

Regina grins at the memory, shaking her head and muttering, "With the weekend I've had, I might need more than thirty seconds."

She watches him nod slowly as he takes a drag of the joint, watches the smoke leave his lips in a cloudy stream before he says, "We're alone. And getting… well, par-baked, I suppose. Tell me now where the line is, so I don't cross it."

God, she loves him — likes him. Likes him, an awful lot. Likes the way he respects her. The way he doesn't want to hurt her.

And boundaries are probably a good idea, so she tells him, "No sex. And I don't really want to be naked in front of someone right now. Not today."

For a moment he just looks at her, a sort of appraising sideways glance that she can't quite read, but knows isn't judgement. And then he says, "I saw you this morning in that dress. If she had something to say about it other than how stunning you looked in it, I'll gladly fight whatever bullshit opinion she pushed on you."

Her lips curve again, softly this time, and grateful.

"I feel self-conscious sometimes after I've been with her. Days like this…" It's not just brunch. Not just Mother's words about her figure or her diet – it's the other thing, too. The blackmail, Mother using her, using her… body… as a threat, a weapon to keep Daddy's money.

She doesn't want this body today.

Robin's still waiting for her to finish her sentence, she realizes, and so she shakes her head a little, takes the joint back and watches the smoke curl off the end as she says, "I know you think I'm beautiful, and you'd probably even make me feel beautiful. But I don't want to have to think about my body tonight, to remind myself that you like what you see, to… I just want to feel good for a little while. Relaxed, and… good."

And in the aim of feeling good, she takes another small puff off the joint. She doesn't cough this time either, just pulls a little of the smoke into her lungs and holds it there, lets it out slowly. She's starting to feel a little… something. Mellow. Very mellow, he was right.

She's breathing just fine, now, and her mind is starting to go quiet.

"Alright, then," he agrees. "Clothes on. But I'm going to say it, because I want you to hear it from me: You're gorgeous. And you look incredibly sexy in my shirt."

Regina laughs a little at that, dark eyes meeting blue, and he's smiling right back at her. She takes another puff off the joint and hands it back; it's nearly spent.

"I'm okay with wandering hands, just so we're clear," she tells him, and her eyelids are starting to feel a little heavy. Not sleepy, per se, she just feels… good. Relaxed. Oh hey, look at that, mission accomplished.

She barely notices Robin's little muttered, "Thank God," too distracted by the line of his jaw. She wants to lick it.

Oh, well, okay, then. She's probably high now, huh?

He was right, though. It's a good high. Not that she has much to compare it to, but she knows a bad high.

"This one time," she tells him, "when I was in college… we were at this party, and I had a pot brownie. Well, half of one – I did always worry they were a little too decadent, you're not wrong."

He's finished the joint now, and stubbed it out, is turning to prop his elbow on the back of the couch and listen to her.

"Anyway, they were really strong," she continues. "And I just remember that I was convinced I had tests the next day that I was going to fail. I was paranoid that I'd forgotten. I was freaking out; Daniel had to bring me home so I could study. Which I did, until the high started to wear off."

Robin snickers, shaking his head at her, biting his bottom lip.

"That wasn't good, that didn't feel good," she tells him, chuckling a little along with him. "But this is good."

"Good," he says, and then he teases her, "Most of us worry that the cops are about to bust up the party, or that one of our mates is doing us wrong. You worried about exams."

Regina lifts a brow and questions, "Are you surprised?"

"Not even a little bit," he answers, grinning.

She Mmms softly, shuts her eyes for a minute and just… is. Just enjoys being in a safe place, with a safe person, that she trusts.

And then her stomach growls. Loudly.

She opens her eyes again to find him looking at her quizzically, asking, "Did you eat dinner?"

"A little," she admits, "and then I threw it all up."

Robin frowns at that, reaching for her and insisting, "Come on. I'll make us something."

She takes his hand, and follows.

.::.

Something turns out to be grilled cheese sandwiches, that he preps while she leans against the counter and sips at a beer he's pulled out of the fridge for her.

Pot, hooking up with the bartender-slash-musician who lives next door, and now beer and grilled cheese. Mother would be growing prouder by the minute.

Regina takes a deep swig from her bottle in defiance.

Fuck Mother.

Fuck her and everything she stands for, and fuck all her games, and her manipulations, and her hard, dark heart. And everything she's ever said, or done, to hurt Regina, to hurt her father, to hurt—

This is not conducive to her mental state.

She can feel the anger trying to bubble up through the mellow, and she doesn't want that, so as she watches Robin slather a piece of Wonderbread with a criminal amount of butter, she confesses, "I'm thinking about my mother."

Robin looks up at her, squints for half a second and then says matter-of-factly, "Sometimes when you're not looking, I try to figure out if I can see your nipples through your top."

Regina snorts into a laugh, bending forward and gripping tightly to her beer as she's seized by the giggles, and when she straightens, he's grinning proudly at her.

"Not thinking about your Mum anymore, are you?" It's not really a question, and he's way too pleased with himself, tossing that buttered bread into a hot pan and layering it with an amount of cheese that she has to look away from.

"No, but I'm a little worried about my nipples showing through my clothes now," she laughs.

But he shakes his head, and assures her that, "Nah, I always strike out." And then he offers a cheeky grin and says, "But it's fun to try."

She snorts a little, and says, "Good. I didn't think they were that dark."

Robin chuckles softly and leans over, presses a kiss to her lips that's easy as breathing, soft and sweet, and it doesn't occur to her that they don't do this every day until at least the third soft peck.

And then he's pulling back before she can remember to savor it, teasing her with, "Why don't you show me, and we can make sure."

Regina laughs, shaking her head and reminding, "Clothes on."

Robin bites that bottom lip again and shrugs, tells her, "Worth a shot," and then turns back to his cooking.

Regina sips her beer, and watches him.

"You need to turn that burner down. You're going to burn your bread before that cheese melts," she informs, a little haughtily, maybe, but she's right. She doesn't do grilled cheese often, but she does it damn well. Quality bread, and good cheese, usually something else to liven it up a bit. She makes a mean mozzarella-pesto grilled cheese, and a brie and fig one that she likes to indulge in every now and then. She could grilled cheese this man under the table.

That doesn't make any sense… does it?

"Don't tell me how to make a cheese toastie," Robin retorts with mock-offense. "I've made many a cheese toastie in my day, and very often after a bit of weed. I know what I'm doing."

Regina's brows lift, and she lets out a doubtful, "Mmhmm."

And then he grimaces a little and admits, "I usually make it under the broiler, but someone lost the bloody tray, so stovetop it is."

"'I know what I'm doing,'" she mocks, and then suggests, "Cover the pan with a lid after you flip it; it'll trap some of the heat in and help it melt. And turn the flame down a little, so the bread toasts more slowly and the cheese has more time to cook."

"Bossy," he teases her, but he does turn the flame down a little, and bends to look for a lid in one of the lower cabinets.

Regina tilts her head slightly to admire the view. It would be better in jeans than the loose-fitting sweats he's currently wearing, but still, "You have a great ass."

Robin stills, then turns back to her with a devilish, shit-eating sort of grin, and she realizes she actually said that out loud.

Oops. But not really oops, because it's true, isn't it? He just admitted to staring at her breasts when she's not paying attention; no reason to pretend she wasn't checking out his ass.

"Well, then that makes two of us," he teases, plopping that lid on the grilled cheese and telling her, "I quite like your candor after a bit of a smoke."

"Mm," she hums. "I'm not sure if it's candor so much as a lack of filter, but I'm glad you're enjoying it."

"I am, very much. Makes me want to be all sorts of honest, too."

Regina gestures encouragingly with her beer, and says, "By all means. It's Be Brutally Honest with Regina Day, apparently, and least I know you won't say something that makes me hate myself."

He frowns a little at that, and asks, "Did you want to talk about what—"

"Not even a little bit," she assures him. She wants to forget. Not talk. "Be honest with me."

Robin looks at her for another moment, then nods, and says, "It is my most fervent dream to see your naked arse."

Regina laughs – cackles really – and Robin is still talking, telling her, "I mean it. I have dreamt of it, many, many times. I have jerked off to it many, many times. Every time you wear those bloody shorts, or those skirts, or leggings, or really, just anything at all. Your ass is exceptional, love."

Regina snickers again, a giddy sort of lightness propelling her to absolute insanity – which apparently looks like setting her beer on the counter and turning so she's facing away from him, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her leggings, her heart starting to pound as she readies herself to make his most fervent dream come true.

And then she catches sight of a stack of mail on the countertop, JOHN LITTLE emblazoned on the address line of the top envelope, and she pauses, looking back at Robin over her shoulder. "Where's John?"

The last thing she needs is to have his roommate walk in on her bareassed in the kitchen. He already knows too much about their last little indiscretion here.

Robin's gaze is glued to her ass, and he murmurs, "On a business trip; please continue. I beg of you."

Regina grins, and tugs the waistband of her leggings down to flash her ass at him before tugging them back up with a giggle.

But Robin whines and tells her, "T-shirt. I couldn't see—"

"Oh," she frowns. Well that just ruined the whole spontaneous thing, didn't it?

She reaches for the bottom hem of the shirt and twists it up, knotting it haphazardly near her navel.

This time when she moons him, she feels just a little bolder, wiggles her naked ass a little at him before she tugs the spandex back up to her waist, Robin's thickly groaned, "Christ alive," making it entirely worth it.

She's starts to turn, but his hands are on her hips suddenly, gripping there for a moment before he turns her in his grasp and hoists her up onto the countertop. She narrowly misses knocking over her beer, and barely has time for a pleasantly surprised "Mm!" before his mouth is on hers.

It's a good kiss, and this one she takes the time to savor. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, her legs around his waist, tangles fingers into his hair and devours him like the fucking French toast she wasn't fucking allowed to have. Robin's hands slide down to grope at her ass (no surprise there), and he draws out of the kiss with a nipping pull at her bottom lip, murmuring, "You are so incredibly sexy, I hope you know that," before diving back in for more.

She doesn't know that, not lately anyway, but right now? Right now she feels it. Feels floaty and present and pleasantly dizzy, and yes, very sexy, especially when he squeezes her ass and groans into her mouth, tugging her more tightly against where he's starting to stiffen in his sweats.

She's going to have an orgasm tonight. She's deciding it right now. She feels good instead of feeling like refried crap, and she wants to keep feeling good, and she's stoned, so hell, she can blame the pot tomorrow. But she's going to get this man to give her one of those shaky-kneed orgasms like the last time before she walks out of his door and back to real life.

For now, though, she's just going to sit here on his kitchen counter and make out with him, and enjoy the way she starts to throb and slicken as he maps the terrain of her neck with his tongue.

There are noises that she's making, she can hear them, but she doesn't quite believe they're coming from her. They're too throaty and desperate to be her, but she's the only woman here and Robin's mouth is busy, so they must be her. It must be her, "Unh, Robin, God!" and her "Mmnah!" and her "Ohh…"

They're a little too pornographic for someone only kissing her neck, but she really likes having her neck kissed, and apparently likes it even more so when she's a bit stoned, and is something burning?

Regina opens her eyes, and the first thing she sees is the ceiling. She tips her head forward and the next thing she sees is Tuck sitting on his rump across the kitchen, watching them with his head cocked a little and one ear perked up. Little perv.

But neither ceiling or dog are burning, and it takes her a moment to realize what is:

"Shit, the food is burning," she gasps.

Robin pauses, his breath washing over her neck in heavy, tickling whooshes, and then he presses a kiss to the spot where her neck meets her shoulder, and mutters, "Fuck. You need to eat."

"It can wait," she insists, moving to pull him back in, but he reaches for her hands, lifts them to his lips and presses a kiss to her knuckles before he insists that, no, it can't.

"Food first," he tells her, "And then I'll snog you silly again. You and that glorious rear end of yours."

She pouts and he drops his hands to rub down her thighs, taking a step back as she reluctantly disentangles herself.

When he pulls the cover off the pan, the burning smell gets stronger, and the grilled cheese he moves from pan to plate is a bit… blackened on the bottom. He starts a fresh one cooking, then attempts to scrape some of the char away with a butter knife, before giving up and just biting into it anyway.

He deems it, "Not that bad, really. Bit burnt, but it's cheesy and toasty."

Still, she opts to wait for the next one.

.::.

Robin considers it a small victory that he's managed to draw her from a woman in the midst of some sort of panic attack to a woman who pounds down not one cheese toastie, but two—and a bottle and a half of beer. Not to mention that she's gone all affectionate and sassy, mooning him and kissing him and bumping up against him while he'd cooked, stealing bites of his blackened grilled cheese and wrinkling her nose adorably at the burnt taste of it.

It had been all he could do to keep his hands off her long enough to see to it that she ate a proper dinner, but now she's done so, and he's free to touch and kiss and roam.

They're on the sofa again, Regina on her back beneath him, trading slow, steamy kisses as their hips rock and press together. She tastes like bitter beer and salty cheese, and she feels like a dream come bloody true as she coasts her fingertips up and down his back again and again and again.

And then she falters a little in the kiss, turning her head suddenly and lifting a fist to her lips before she let out a low little burp.

Robin snickers at her and her cheeks pinken a bit (or maybe she's just flushed from the eager making out, it's hard to truly tell).

"It's the beer," she tells him sheepishly. "The bubbles."

"Mm," he hums, planting kisses along her neck, dotting them along the edge of her collar.

"I'm so stuffed," she admits with a little groan, and a little laugh.

Robin takes pity on her (and continues his own enjoyment) by scooting down a bit so his torso isn't pressed into her full belly. He's cradled between her spread thighs now, one of her ankles hooking around his waist as he trails kisses over the soft cotton of her borrowed shirt, cresting the swell of one cloth-covered breast and making his way down the other side.

When he nears her actual stomach, though, he finds himself with slim fingers tangled in his hair, clutching to stop his descent.

He looks up at her with what feels like a rather goofy smile and asks, "Too full?"

Regina looks a little sheepish and admits, "I think I have a grilled cheese baby. I'm all bloated."

"I suppose that was rather more butter and cheese than your poor belly is used to."

Regina frowns at that and says, "It's a stomach, not a belly." She taps gently below her navel and says, "This is a belly."

"Semantics," he insists, because it's all one and the same isn't it? Tit to clit, it's all belly.

"Not semantics," she tells him, smoothing her palms over the fabric between them (she'd pulled out that little knot before they'd made it to the couch) as he levers up a bit more fully onto his elbows. "My stomach is where I digest food. My belly is where I have this stubborn little curve."

He frowns down at her, trying to figure out just what she's talking about, his own hand following the path hers had taken. Sure enough, there's a subtle little roundness below her navel, but it's firm muscle beneath his palm, so he looks up at her and says, "I'm fairly certain that's called a uterus."

Regina snorts softly and tells him, "Yes, well, he's eleven."

"It's still in there, though, isn't it?" he challenges. It's not baby fat she's fretting over, it's just body. A barely-there womanly curve that he itches to press a kiss to. But she's clearly self conscious about it, so he quells the urge.

"Yes, but…" She concedes, frowning and offering a dissatisfied, "It could be flatter. I do a lot of cardio, but I'm a little lax on strength and core." She gives the t-shirt a little tug so it's not pulled so tightly across her belly, the looser fabric bunching a little and disguising her nonexistent flaw. "When I was fifteen, I could do four hundred crunches a day."

She says it with a tone he can't quite read – there's a challenge to it, a bite, and maybe a bit of pride, and something else he can't place. He'd maybe work harder to figure it out if his eyebrows weren't rising to his hairline in surprise.

"Four hun—Were you concave when you were fifteen?" he asks her, a bit floored. At fifteen, he was a slightly scrawny thing more worried about hiding spliffs in his uniform and not getting caught lighting them up in the back of the schoolyard than doing enough crunches to make his eyes cross.

"I…" She looks down, away, doesn't meet his gaze as she says, "Yes, actually. I was… a skinny kid."

He's hit a nerve. Fuck.

"Well, with four hundred crunches a day, you'd have to be," he murmurs warmly, swirling soothing fingers over her belly (no, her stomach) as he asks, "Why are you so hard on yourself?"

She looks at him then. Raises her brows and asks dryly, "Have you met my mother?"

"Your mother's not here."

Her expression goes pained, pinched, her voice softening a little as she admits, "She's always here. In my head. She planted herself here, a toxic, well-tended garden of 'Too fat, too much, too many calories, too much sugar. Run a little longer, you're pooching at the hips. Only you could diet yourself into the hospital, Regina, you're always so dramatic.'"

He blinks at that, her bitterly bitten words locking together like pieces in a puzzle he hadn't even realized she'd been assembling for him (he wonders whether she's noticed it). They slot in next to I can't eat this pizza tonight, and picking all the skin off her white-meat-only fried chicken, and hesitating to grab a beer in his kitchen, and running at four AM, and four hundred crunches a day when she was fifteen, and oh.

Oh.

Nobody just diets themselves into the hospital. That is not a diet.

That's something more.

Regina is still talking, still rattling off a litany of her mother's poison: "'Therapy at your age, I thought you'd grown out of that, Regina. When are you going to stop being so sensitive? Honestly, Regina. Do you really think you deserve dessert after how you've behaved, Regina?'"

"Tell her to shut up," he mutters darkly, hating her mother even more than he already had – and he hadn't been sure that was possible.

"It's not that simple," she sighs wearily. "I'm not that simple."

"No, nothing about you is simple," Robin agrees, giving in to the urge to press that kiss to her belly. He rests his chin there gently, looks up at her and says, "You're brilliant."

She melts a little, her lips curving, her fingers scratching swirls against his scalp as she tells him, "I wish I could see me the way you do."

"Me too."

He presses another kiss to her belly, and makes himself a promise: he's going to pull up every poisonous weed Cora Mills planted in her by the roots. Yank out every insecurity, and replace it with a little seed of compliment until she doesn't look at her body and see a mess of flaws.

Whatever they are to each other, he's going to make sure she knows how beautiful she is, how wonderful, he's going to tend his own bloody garden of 'eyes I could drown in,' and 'lips I can't get enough of' and 'that smile I think about every time I close my eyes,' and that arse he could take a bite out of it was so round and tempting, and 'eat a bloody cookie, you deserve it,' and 'do you have any idea, any at all, how criminally sexy you are?' He'll make a second job out of making sure that she knows how fucking valued she is, even if they never become anything more than good friends who occasionally fall prey to delightfully enjoyable lapses of judgment like this one.

And he's going to start working at it right now.

He tugs a little at that t-shirt she's wearing, and muses, "How is it that i can wear this t-shirt every day, and look like nothing special, but you put it on for an hour, and look like sex on a stick?"

Regina smirks, and rolls her eyes. The smirk lingers, though, spreads into a smile.

He landed that one quite well.

"I highly doubt that," she tells him, her thumb coasting down along his jaw until he turns to press a kiss to it.

"I mean it," he assures. "I want to do all sorts of naughty things to you right now. Your no nudity rule is not doing anything to suppress my libido."

She grins at him, her nose scrunching adorably, and then her hand falls to his shoulder, squeezing, bunching his shirt as she urges, "Come up here and do them, then." She sobers, and holds up a finger, reminding, "No sex."

"I remember," he assures, pressing a kiss to that fingertip, and then nipping it, sucking it between his lips and swirling his tongue around it. Her eyes darken and heat, his teeth scraping lightly at the pad of her fingertip as he draws back. "What do you want, babe?"

"You, shirtless, and kissing me," she answers, and he grins, moves back to his knees and tugs his shirt up and off.

"I see the no nudity rule doesn't extend to me," he teases, dropping his shirt to the floor and looking down at her. She's a little half-lidded, still, from the weed, but she's staring at his chest, her tongue peeking out to wet her lips as she murmurs a pleased Definitely not that makes him feel particularly good about himself. At least he's not the only one here who can't get enough of the other.

One of her hands rises, her nails raking lightly up from the waist of his sweats past his navel, making goosebumps bloom over his skin and his cock twitch. He'd been hard before, but it had deflated slightly as they'd been talking. But now, with her urging him to, "Come back down here, I want all this pressed up against me," it's starting to come back.

Robin complies eagerly, situating himself just so atop her, his hips notched in with hers, his nose bumping against hers as he drops a peck to her lips. "How's that buzz holding up?" he asks, and she smiles a little dopily, her brows wiggling.

"I feel really good," she tells him. "Mellow. My brain's a little fuzzy, but in a good way."

"Mm," he hums, pressing little kisses along her jaw now. "Good. Why don't we work on making it even fuzzier?"

She giggles beneath him (he rather likes the way pot makes her so giggly), and says that sounds like a great idea, her arms wrapping around torso with a little moan as she presses her hips up to grind against his.

Robin grinds down into her in response, and they set up a lazy, firm rhythm. His rapidly hardening cock rubbing against her in a way that makes her huff and moan, their mouths meeting again, again, savoring, indulging. It's incredibly hot, this lazy enjoyment of each other, and he hopes to God she doesn't regret it when she sobers up, because he sure as hell won't.

One of his hands finds its way to her tits, squeezing and groping, his thumb rubbing over her and discovering the bump of a firm nipple. He groans, strokes his thumb against her and wishes she was more sensitive here because he desperately wants to spend a good long while on her tits. Wants to kiss and lick and suck – and then he reminds himself that he can't take her shirt off, so it's probably just as well.

Still, he can't fight the urge to scoot down a little, pressing kisses to her neck, her collar, the cotton-covered rise of her chest. He just wants to give that pert nipple a little nip of appreciation, and he does, a teasing little bite through a layer of cotton and lycra. And he means to kiss his way right back up, but she gasps and arches her chest toward him.

Robin glances up at her and asks, "Was that good?"

Regina's eyes are closed, her lips pressed together, but she nods, so he does it again. A blunted bite that draws an, "Ohhh…" out of her, and, "Keep doing that…"

He's not sure if it's the pot or the pressure that he her lighting up a bit more than usual, but he's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He tugs the t-shirt taut across her tits and then treats both nipples to little teasing bites in turn, switching from one to the other, back and forth until she's writhing and moaning and pressing her hips up against his waist.

He's stone hard now, from the sound of her, the feel of her, and he has to have her lips again. Has to kiss his way back up and claim them, their hips grinding together again with twin satisfied groans as he murmurs, "You're so gorgeous like this."

She Mmms against his lips, then manages a breathless, "Robin, I need to come," between kisses.

He pauses, presses his brow to hers and murmurs, "Fuck."

He wants her to say that again.

"Wanna make you come," he murmurs, digging his hips down harder into hers on the next grind and enjoying the way she tips her head back and gasps for him.

"God, keep – mm! – keep talking to me," she moans his hands grasping at his hips, groping at his ass, and fuck, God, he bucks slightly into her when she gives him a good squeeze.

He sucks his way along her jaw and asks, "Talking to you?"

She Mmhmms and then gasps, "Wanna hear your – oh! – voice when I— mm!"

"Yeah?" He keeps his voice low, mutters into her ear as his hips push and push against her. "You like my voice?" (Yes!) "Mm, love hearing you too, love… every gasp… every—yes, just like that, babe, love hearing how good I make you feel…" Every breath is a gasping little moan now, nails scraping up and biting into his shoulders as she jerks, arches, but she's not quite there. Robin buries his fingers in her hair, cups her head up, their cheeks brushing as he tries to think straight enough to talk her over the edge. "Can you feel how – oh, love – can you feel how hard I am for you?"

She hisses a, "Yesss," then lets out this little whine that goes straight to his cock, her voice thick as she moans, "Want you."

"I know, babe, I know, I want you too, want to sink right down into you and feel how – mm – wet you are right now. Are you wet for—"

The "Uh huh" is out of her mouth before he even finishes his question, desperate and rough, and then she's letting out another high moan, planting her feet into the couch cushion and pressing up harder against him. "Please, I—"

"I've got you, love," he assures, one hand moving down to palm her thigh as he tries to focus his thrusts against her in the way that had her gasping before. "Let go for me, I've got you…"

But she doesn't. She rocks and grinds, and digs her nails into his bicep and keeps letting out these little sounds of pleasure, but they grow increasingly desperate and frustrated, no matter his utterances of how much he wants her, how good she feels, sounds, smells.

And then she goes limp for a second, rakes one hand through her hair with a little growl of frustration and half-whines, "I can't—" and Robin feels like an arse. She needs this tonight, and he is not delivering. (In his defense, he did get her stoned, which is likely not helping her get there…)

"Pot's a depressant," he mutters. "Let me…" He eases back from her a little, until he can work a hand down between them, down into her leggings, and he's hardly asked, "Is this alright?" before she's nodding eagerly and gasping Please.

So Robin keeps going, slips his fingers further, burrows them in against bare skin and he can feel how close she is, all slick and swollen and sensitive as his fingers skim over her clit. He sinks two into her effortlessly, pleased when she moans and nods, murmuring, "Christ, love, you're soaked," but her leggings are tight and he can't move too terribly well with the band pressed into his wrist the way it is. He presses a kiss to her cheek and asks, "Can these come off, love?"

He's a little bit surprised that she nods, less surprised that she gives his chest a little push and reaches for her waistband herself. Robin slips his fingers out, and moves back so she can wriggle out of them. They end up on the floor with his discarded t-shirt, and he ends up pressed in alongside her, nipping her earlobe and telling her, "You have great legs, you know that?" as he slides his hand back down.

She bites her lip, and nods, parts her thighs for him, and lets him sink two fingers back into her soaked heat. Christ, she's so ready to come, he can feel it. He'd meant what he said, he wants desperately to sink his cock in her and fuck her down into these cushions until she screams for him. Someday (probably not, but he can dream).

"How's that, babe?"

Her brow scrunches before she lets out a whispered, "More…"

"More?" he asks, and she swallows thickly, and nods, so he eases ring and middle out, sinks pointer and middle in and then out again and all three together as her jaw drops open.

"Like that?"

"Uh huh," she breathes, and then, "Oh, that's good, so good…" still needy and tense, one hand fisting against the cushions, the other tangling in his hair as he works his fingers inside her, testing depth and angle until she lets out a deep, throaty moan.

"Right there?" he asks her, and she nods, gasps, Yeah. "Quick or slow, love?"

She asks for quick, and he doesn't waste a moment, doesn't want to risk her losing any of that edge she's been riding. He fucks her hard, quick, fingers pounding into her, palm smacking against her clit every time, just the way she'd come for him the last time all those weeks ago. She tenses and cries out, squeezes her eyes shut and nods frantically.

"Come for me, babe," he urges. "Want to watch you come again, you've no idea how many times I've pictured the last time."

Her "M-Me too-ooh!" is shaky and tense, she's trying so hard to make this happen that he worries she's getting in her own way.

"Think of it every time I jerk off," he murmurs, dropping a warm kiss below her ear, trying to work her up even more with, "You were so sexy, love, so gorgeous, show me again."

She cries his name, a strangled, drawn out, "Robinnnn," her body tensing, tensing but not breaking. Her face screws up, nose scrunching, brow furrowing, but it's effort, not pleasure, and she whispers a near-silent, "Please…"

"Come on, love," he breathes to her. "Push it all away, it's just us. Just you, and me, and my fingers inside you and how hard I'm about to make you come."

Her breath is quick and short, and she nods, nods again.

"Focus on my fingers, love, nothing else, just feel me, feel me fucking you, good and hard, hmm, just like you need, just right to make you come, yeah?"

Her face melts a little as he talks, some of the wrinkles smoothing out, her jaw dropping open slightly, and she's quaking but some of the tension has softened from of her.

"That's it," he urges, "Just feel, just enjoy it, love, just let it come, let yourself come, you deserve it, hmm? Deserve to come hard after the day you've had…"

The next moan squeaks out of her, her fingers grasping restlessly at the couch cushion again, and her thighs fall open a little wider for him, her wetness feeling snugger, hotter as he keeps up his pace. But it doesn't seem to be quite enough, and he will not fail at this task, Goddamnit, he's going to make her come til she's hoarse if it kills him.

Her head tips toward him, mouth opening for a kiss, and he indulges. Pauses his hand for a moment to do it (to give his arm a rest for a hot second, too, grinding his palm slow and hard against her, rocking his fingers in deep as he does), the kiss wet and warm. She's panting when it breaks, murmurs, "I need…"

"What?" he urges, with another lazy rock. "What do you need, love?"

Her brow pinches again, but his next slow push has her gasping softly, her, "I don't—" broken off into "mmm" with the next and Robin wonders if maybe they're going about this all wrong.

He nuzzles into her hair, his voice low and velvety when he murmurs, "Regina, love, rub your clit for me…"

It takes a moment, but he feels her fingertips slide under his palm, feels them start to move in little circles as he keeps up the slow, deep thrusts. Her next gasp has an edge of surprise to it, and his next push makes her neck arch again.

"Is this what you need, love? Deep and slow?"

Her only answer is a breathy sort of "Haaa…" but she's starting to lose that look of frustration, her jaw loosening, trembling a little.

"That's it," he coaxes, "Let go," and "Just feel, love…"

Her breath goes deeper, deeper, his name spilling from her, a surprised, breathless, "Robin!"

"I know, love, I see it," he murmurs, lips peppering kisses along her jaw. The slower pace means he can feel everything more clearly, the slick, slippery slide of her, and the way everything starts to clench just a little. "You're so beautiful right now, so gorgeous right before you—"

Orgasm rolls through her in a gasping wave, her back arching, her forehead tilting toward his and pressing as she moans softly. She's too close to watch, so he has to settle for listening, closes his eyes and murmurs more encouragements, and takes in every trembling, shuddering sound, and then she's gasping, pleading, "Don't stop! Don't st—oh! Mm!"

"You want me to keep going?" he rasps, biting gently at her earlobe and keeping up the pace of his hand. She nods on a throaty Uh huh, so Robin ignores the beginnings of a cramp in his arm and gives her what she needs. Pushes into her again, and again, grinds his palm against the back of her hand when he realizes she's stopped rubbing herself (she squeezes around his fingers at the grinding pressure on her clit).

Her neck arches back, digging into the sofa cushion, and he can see again, can watch her lashes flutter, and her lower lip tremble, her mouth open in a loose O. God, she's so bloody gorgeous when she comes. She's slipping off the edge now, settling into that place in between orgasms, her eyes still shut tight against the pleasure he hasn't let abate, her brow pinched with it, but she's gone from moaning to panting, her fingers grasping at his elbow but not gripping hard.

His arm is really starting to cramp. Fuck.

He needs just a moment to shake it out, but he wants to make her come again. Wants to give her one more if he can, and bliss her out completely.

Reluctantly, he lets his fingers slip from her (she whines softly and he presses a kiss to the apple of her cheek), urging, "Rub your clit for a minute, babe, I just need to stretch my arm."

Her eyes are still clenched tight, but she nods and bites her lip as she rubs herself again. Robin stretches his arm, gives it a little shake, rolls his wrist and watches the way she inhales sharply at her own touch.

Good, good, she's still maintaining that edge.

He can still feel a little bit of tension in his muscle when he slips his hand back down and slides two fingers inside her – he's not going to be able to work another orgasm out of her slowly without it cramping again. So he decides to go for broke.

Robin crooks his fingers just so and rubs them hard and quick inside of her, grinning when the sudden, intense stimulation makes her shout and arch.

"Good?" he checks, and she nods frantically, lets out this painfully sexy little whine and grips hard at the sofa cushion. "Are you gonna come again, babe?"

She just sucks in a few frantic breaths, lets out an "Ahhh!" that makes his cock throb because he drew that bloody fantastic sound out of her. But she doesn't give any indication that she'd like him to stop, so he keeps it up, glances down in time to see her thighs start to quake, to watch her hand grasp frantically at his thigh and fist in his sweats, and then she's gasping a tight, "Don't—st—op!" and coming again with a harsh cry.

It's loud, and she clamps tight around his fingers, but he's not stopping until she makes him. It occurs to him in a flash of sudden awareness that his son is asleep upstairs, so he covers her mouth with his and muffles her cries. They vibrate against his lips, desperate and throaty, and then her mouth pops open with another high "Ah!" and one of her hands grips tightly as his wrist, nails digging in as she breathes, "Sto—" and breaks off into a gasp.

Robin stills, and she goes boneless against the couch with a sigh of what he hopes is satisfied relief, her cunt still clenching slightly around his snug fingers.

His arm aches, but not nearly as much as his cock does. It's hard, needy, watching her come not only once, but twice, has him solid as stone where he's pressed to her thigh.

But her lashes have fallen shut, her face slack and peaceful as she sighs and drops one hand heavily to the cushion above her head. She's not anxious anymore, he's pretty damn certain of that. Not overthinking either – not likely thinking much at all.

He doesn't want to interrupt her hard-earned afterglow with a selfishly prodding cock, so he'll just… he'll just have to wait and hope she's not about to tug her pants up and run out on him, modesty returning in full force.

In the meantime, he shifts just slightly to earn a little friction against where he needs it most, disguising it by drawing his fingers slowly out of her.

She's still basking, so Robin doesn't hesitate in lifting them to his mouth to suck her off of him, moaning softly as he finally gets another taste of her.

God, he should have gone down on her, buried his tongue inside her and drunk straight from the well.

Next time, he thinks – and then he reminds himself that there may not be a next time, and decides to savor this one while he's got it.

.::.

She's enjoying the pleasant rush of blood through her veins when she hears him let out a quiet groan, and she lets her eyes slit open just in time to catch him sucking her wetness off his middle finger. Regina feels herself blush under the already pink flush of her cheeks, self-consciousness trying to put down roots in her belly, but the soil there is so saturated with pleasure that it dies off quickly.

He catches her watching and gives her a cheeky, "Delicious."

Regina bites down on her lower lip and laughs softly.

He wants her, she knows he does, the evidence of it is undeniably pressed against her hip. A part of her wants to do things that are terribly reckless, wants to feel the thick length of him slide into her, pin her against this couch and fuck down into her until she sees stars again (she feels herself clench at the thought and forces a deep, slow breath to rein in her raging hormones).

She has enough presence of mind to know that she shouldn't be making a decision like that while stoned, fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it). Instead, she brings a heavy hand to comb through the hair at his temple, draws him down into a warm, lazy kiss that tastes vaguely of her, and then tells him softly, sincerely, "Thank you."

Robin swallows thickly, but she sees a flicker of disappointment beneath his soft expression. He pecks a kiss to her lips and shifts to settle between her and the back of the sofa with a grunt. His arm drapes over her middle, and she presses into his warmth, shivering once as the light sheen of sweat over her skin begins to cool. Their legs weave, and his arm ends up underneath her head as he holds her close and presses a kiss into her hair.

"How do you feel now?" he asks, still using that bedroom voice that goes straight to her clit.

She hums softly, tells him, "Good. Relaxed. A little sleepy, and very fuzzy."

He huffs a little laugh against her hair.

You could house a troupe of Boy Scouts under the tent in his sweats.

She's not quite sure what kind of self-sacrificial heroism he's going for here when he rubs her shoulder and tells her, "Job well done, then," and, "Close your eyes, love; take advantage," like she's not about to return the favor.

"I can't," she reminds. "I need to get back to Henry soon, and if I fall asleep now, I'll probably stay here. Bareassed on your sofa."

Robin snorts his amusement, and squeezes her closer, murmuring, "Fine by me," into her hair.

"I bet," she chuckles, as she lets her hand skim down his bare belly (very much enjoys the feel of his torso beneath her fingertips), and coasts her palm over the length of him. Robin tenses and inhales deeply, and drops a hand to cover hers.

"S'alright, babe," he dismisses. "Tonight was for you. I can wait til after you head home, and jerk off to what we just did. You enjoy your endorphins for a few minutes."

"Robin, this thing could cut glass," she argues, lifting her head, and he snorts a little at her.

"I'll live," he assures, lifting his hand from her shoulder to tuck a lock of hair back behind her ear. "I don't want you to lose out on relaxed and fuzzy. It was the whole point, yeah?"

"The point was for me to quiet my brain for a while, and we did," Regina tells him, leaning in to press her own kisses over his neck, his jaw, working her way to his ear and playing her trump card: "Now let me suck you off."

He inhales again, deep and quick, and exhales a little groan that makes her smile. Before he can argue with her again, she gives him a slow stroke, does not miss the way he presses into it just a little bit, a reflex he can't quite fight.

"You're not going to take long," she reasons, rubbing her thumb up over the tip of him, the cotton a little damp over his head. She gives him a cheeky smile and adds, "I'll still have all those endorphins in five minutes."

She watches indecision eat at him, his teeth clamping onto his bottom lip, his eyelids fluttering oh-so-subtly as she rubs the head of his cock again with her thumb. He swallows heavily, and just when she thinks she's going to have to sweet talk him some more, he nods.

Good.

She has half a mind to preserve her own post-coital buzz and try not to draw this out, but she also has a very acute desire to taste a line down the center of his chest and belly, and they probably shouldn't do this again, no matter how "healthy" Archie thinks it is, so she indulges. Forces sleepy limbs to obey until she can plant a wet kiss in the middle of his sternum, another one a few inches lower, a swirl of her tongue another few inches below that, thoroughly enjoying the way his belly expands and contracts with thickening breaths the further down she goes. And then she meets the elastic of his waistband and grasps it, giving it a little tug until he lifts his hips and gives a little wriggle to help draw his pants down to his thighs.

His cock is incredibly hard, the skin velvety smooth and hot as she wraps her fingers around him, lets her thumb idly trace a throbbing vein. Robin moans, and it thrills her. She knows that there are very real reasons why this is not something she should be doing, but right now she's deciding to focus on other things. Like the importance of fairness, and turnabout, and the way his foreskin is slick with precum.

She shifts a little, gives him another stroke and spreads all that slippery wetness around the tip of him again, and then she glances up to make sure he's watching as she bends in and swirls her tongue over him. He is, but only for a second before his head drops back on a groan, his cock twitching slightly.

He breathes, "Regina," and she intensely regrets that he's so close and this will be so short.

But he is close, and it's late, and that afterglow haze will not last indefinitely, so she doesn't tease. Swirls her tongue around his head again, once more, and then wraps her lips around him and sucks in half of him.

Robin's hands find her hair immediately, fingers tangling loosely into it, quiet grunts and moans sounding as she bobs her head up and down, slowly at first, slicking him up, taking him deeper, sucking a little harder, a little more.

He Mmm!s, hips jerking, fingers clenching, and then she draws back, back, sucks hard as she goes and enjoys the desperate little noise he makes, keeps sucking until her lips have closed around him, until his foreskin slips from her lips. Robin's breath rushes out in an exhale, his Adam's apple bobs, and she tells him, "Watch me."

Regina hears his whispered, "Christ," and then he's bending one elbow and drawing it up behind his head, propping it up so he can see better, and she smirks, and sucks him in again, works him over, swirls her tongue, wraps her grip around the base of his cock and covers what her mouth doesn't quite reach with lazy, corkscrewing strokes.

She enjoys immensely the way he curses softly, and then murmurs, "God, fuck, I've wanted this for— oh, babe, just like—oh—fuck, Regina—"

She chuckles around her significant mouthful, draws back and runs her tongue beneath his foreskin, runs her hand up and eases it back gently, testing, but it slides back with almost no coaxing and then she's free to give a firm, flat lick to the bare head of him and enjoy the way he chokes and fists the cushions.

"Again!" he gasps, and she does, again, again, his thighs clenching, his hips jerking, and he makes this sound, this sort of desperate whimper that makes her feel like she's won the damn lottery.

He's gasping around his, "Love — suck — please—" and who is she to deny him after she's come over on short notice, in the middle of a panic attack, and he's let her cry on him, and jerk him around yet again, smoke his pot and indulge in something they both know will be temporary and selfish.

He has earned every (she hopes) lovely minute of this blowjob, and if he wants her to suck his cock some more, then so be it. She switches back to what she'd been doing before, bobbing her head up and down, sucking firmly, skims her fingers down the length of him until she can cup his balls in her palm, and he must be close, must be ridiculously close, because they're tight and firm and he groans when she kneads them gently, groans again a little more desperately when that hand slides back up and wraps around him again.

And then it's, "Regina, love – babe, I'm – I'm gonna – Fuck, love, I'mgonnacome!"

His hips are squirming, twitching, and she doesn't let up, just moans her permission, sucks harder, rubs him faster until her mouth fills with the salty taste of him as he gasps and groans above her, his fingers restless in her hair again.

Swallowing is not her favorite thing—cum isn't exactly a dessert topping—but she powers through every last little spurt of it and then draws back and forces herself to swallow it down. She wipes at the little drop that had escaped her as she crawls back up his body, and then she kisses him immediately. Deeply. With tongue.

She feels his grimace, hears his little protesting "Mm!" and then cuddles herself down onto his shoulder with a declaration of, "If I have to taste it, so do you."

"You didn't have to swallow it," he grumbles, and she smirks, shutting her eyes and letting herself savor the still-pleasant feel of her post-orgasmic limbs.

"Mm. Less messy," she sighs, her fingertips swirling lazily against his chest. Her high is wearing off, she thinks, but it's still there enough that she finds herself very much enjoying the simple feel of his skin beneath her fingertips, the tickle of the smattering of hairs there.

His nose presses into her hair again, and he murmurs a quiet, "You still relaxed?"

"Mmhmm. Very." Regina tips her head up and asks, "You?"

"God, yes," he sighs in a way that makes her giggle. She needs to stop that – she's not a giggler.

It's an unwelcome thought, a little moment of self-criticism that makes her realize that, yes, her high probably is wearing off.

She sighs again, a little more heavily, and tells him, "I should get home to Henry… I've been gone a long time."

Robin's fingers comb through her hair, as he excuses, "You needed some time to settle down."

He has no idea.

She frowns a little, then levers herself up enough to look down at him. "Thank you. For tonight. I really, really needed this."

One corner of his smile curls up, and he lifts a hand to tuck her hair back behind her ear again, telling her, "I'm always here when you need. When she twists you all up… just call."

She shouldn't. They shouldn't.

Fuck.

Fuck, what is she doing? What are they doing? They shouldn't be doing this…

"Stop thinking," he tells her, and she flushes and wishes she wasn't so transparent. She isn't, usually, but it seems Robin has learned to read her. He grins, now, and adds, "Or I'll have to finger you senseless again."

Regina snorts a little, can't help herself, fighting down a smile.

"It is what it is, okay?" he tells her. "You had a shit day, you needed a friend."

"Most of my friends don't give me orgasms," she points out, and his brows rise.

"Most?" he questions. "Who's my bloody competition?"

Regina laughs, and amends, "None of my other friends give me orgasms."

"Good," he smirks, and then he's rubbing her palm soothingly over her skin and telling her, "Don't let yourself feel bad about this, please. You were so upset when you came here; I don't expect anything from this. I know the score here, I know the issues, we both do. I just wanted you to breathe, and relax, and feel good for a while."

The small smile she offers him doesn't quite reach her eyes, but she concedes, "Well, you did that. And…" She glances down at his chest, drums her fingers there and tells him quietly, "My therapist says there is nothing wrong with… seeking out this kind of comfort, as long as we both know what this is."

She feels his little hum more than feels it, and then he asks, "Then why do you feel bad?"

Her eyes meet his as she asks, "Do we know both know what this is? That's it's…"

She doesn't even know how to finish that sentence. She doesn't know what this is anymore.

"It was comfort," he tells her. "It was what you needed tonight, and tomorrow we're friends. Right?"

"And that's okay with you?"

"If it wasn't, I'd have said something earlier," he assures her. "Now come on, lay with me for a bit before you go. I don't like to run off right after sex."

He gives her a little press toward him, and Regina gives, sinking back down against his chest and pillowing her head there.

"Stop thinking," he murmurs again, pressing another kiss into her hair.

And, oh, how Regina wishes she could.

Her buzz is definitely gone. She can feel that tingly sensation fading from her limbs, leaving the heaviness behind. It's not unpleasant, but, "My mellow is wearing off."

His fingertips scratch pleasantly between her shoulderblades, and she feels his head tilt a little before he offers, "You want me to roll another?

"No, I should get home soon," she says again, but she's so comfortable here, pressed against him.

She knows she should leave, but to be completely honest, she doesn't particularly want to, not quite yet. Regina clings to the reassurance that it's okay to do this with him. Tells herself that if she hadn't come here, she would have been an anxious mess on her bathroom floor, would have gone to bed on a hollow, empty stomach, and wrought with anxiety. So maybe this isn't the smartest thing she's ever done, but it's not the worst, either.

This is… fine. This is comfort. This is a bad decision for a good reason, and maybe tomorrow, she'll kick herself for it, but right now… Right now she feels safe. So she's going to stay right here, with him, where nothing can touch her, for just a little while longer.