For OQ Fix It Day 6
Not going to lie, I love this. Hopefully you'll love it as well. ;)
(Forgot to change Robin's name in the first half, my bad. All better)
Roni likes her whiskey. He's noticed the many nights he visits here spending more time staring at her than the papers he's supposed to be grading. It's nothing overt, nothing that would alarm him (although he's pretty sure bartenders aren't supposed to drink behind the bar, he also reasons that her name is on the building and she can do whatever the hell she damn well pleases.) Tonight is different though. Tonight she's not slowly sipping from a two finger neat or throwing back a shot in a celebratory toast; tonight it's Jameson straight from the bottle she keeps reaching for under the bar. Tonight she's well on her way to drunk.
There's one other table of patrons in the opposite corner. Some hipsters that look barely old enough to be allowed in here and he pauses only a moment before casually walking over to them and offering to pay their tab in exchange for their hasty exit. Hipster One gives him the questioning eyebrow, but Hipster Two has his own theories cocking his head not so subtly towards Roni and jabbing Hipster One in the ribs. Let them think he's about to get laid if it'll get them out of here sooner, Robert thinks, so he plays along, smiles and winks and just like that Two and Three are pulling One out the door, but not before given Robert a congratulatory pat on the back. To be young again, he shakes his head as he watches them slink out into the night. He should probably lock the door, but it's late. He's been here at this time of night enough times to know that no one is going to wander in that hasn't already been.
"Chasing away my customers now, Professor?" Roni questions as he approaches the bar. She reaches for her bottle again, takes another swig and leaves it on the counter. No point in trying to conceal it any longer, there's no one here but him and she's been watching him watch her all night.
"I thought perhaps you would prefer to drink alone." He takes a stool, pulling out is wallet and laying a credit card on the counter to pay for himself and the Hipsters Three.
"I would," she pushes the plastic back to him, grabs her bottle and walks out from behind the bar. The room is tilting and she knows she's veering right but can't seem to correct it. Making it to the door nonetheless, she pulls it open with a grunt and tells him to "Get out."
"Not yet," he turns on the stool to face her, leaning back against the bar. "What's going on with you, Roni?"
"Nothing that's any of your business," she mumbles as she shuts the door against the cold night air that is killing her buzz and turns the locks. If he won't leave he'll have to spend the night.
"You've listened to me bitch and moan plenty. Hell, you've listened to the woes of everyone in this city; I'm offering to listen to you for one night. Something is obviously bothering you." They stare silently at each other for a moment, Roni clutching the door knob in one hand and the neck of the bottle in the other. Robert waits her out. He's a patient man, this literature professor that covers her corner booth with papers and pens every Tuesday and Thursday night, she knows he'll wait out her stubborn streak.
"I'm not talking," she says flatly after the silence between them begins to stretch into awkwardness. "I'm drinking. You may drink with me." She slides into the booth he previously occupied, sets her bottle down on some idealistic freshman's account of the feminist rebellion of Hester Prynne, and stares him down. She waits for him to admonish her, give her a lecture on etiquette and decorum and all those other things that stodgy professor's value. Instead he reaches over the bar, grabs a rocks and slips back in the booth across from her.
She pours until he taps the table, barely a double shot but that just means there's more for her. "That one wasn't so bad," he says, fingers drumming over the term paper turned coaster. "She's a bright kid, that one. If you want something to soak up the spill I recommend Jason Allen," he lifts the bottle, removes the paper to the safety of his briefcase and replaces it with another. "I'm entirely certain the lazy tosser didn't even read the summary on the back of the book before writing this rubbish 10 minutes before it was due." He gets half a smile out of her for that and if Jason Allen accomplishes nothing else this semester he might just pass the kid on that alone.
Roni stares at the paper, reads around the bottle at its center and is certain it's not blocking any content whatsoever. It really is awful; he didn't even spell the character's name properly and it's such a shame. It hurts her and she wonders where on earth this boy's mother is that would let him slack off on his life like this. The misspelled words are blurring together and Robert has a finger hooked under her chin and a thumb wiping at tears she didn't realize she was crying. He's just holding her face, looking at her without staring, without judging. The whiskey's swirling in her head is matching the pain swirling in her heart and before she even considers breaking her vow of silence she hears her trembling voice tell him, "It's my son's birthday."
Her breath is warm as it shutters out against his hand. Shit. He feels like a complete ass. "I didn't know you had a son," he tells her, hoping she hears the apology there for all the nights he's complained to her about his ex-wife and their preposterous custody arrangement that's left him with one weekend a month and a fight every holiday.
"I do," she drinks again. "I don't know where he is, but I have him. Had him," she corrects, drinking again and one more time before he's taking the bottle from her fingers and setting it to the side.
"What happened?" he asks, imagining the worst because she certainly wouldn't be forcing alcohol into her veins if it were a happy tale.
"He left," she shrugs, reaches for the bottle but stops herself halfway. Robert takes the hand frozen mid-reach and winds her fingers with his own, waiting for her to elaborate. "He left home the day he turned 18, said he needed get away from me so he could have a life—screamed it actually. I wasn't in a good place then, wasn't nearly the mother he deserved. I was young when I had him, too young. And too selfish. I don't blame him for leaving, but I-" She pulls her hand from his, grabs the bottle and takes another long drink. "But I miss him."
"Have you tried to find him?" he asks, regretting it immediately, but she doesn't look offended, just weary. His heart breaks for her. He doesn't see his boy nearly as much as he would like, but he knows where he is, knows where he sleeps, what kinds of food he likes, the music he listens to, gets a call or video chat at least once a week.
"Yeah, I have," she nods, letting him take her hand again. It's nice, warm and solid and the contact is keeping her from breaking apart. "I hired a P.I. and everything, three actually. They all told me the same thing: that he doesn't want to be found, that he probably changed his name and disappeared into some big city. I filed missing persons reports, checked police stations, death records," her eyes close at that; a silent thanks sent that those searches had all come up empty. "It's like he got sucked into another dimension. I don't even know if I'd recognize him if he walked through those doors." She turns then, stares at the doors as if waiting for some portal to open and her lost child to walk back into her life. But that's a fairytale and Roni had given up on her own happy ending years ago. She turns back to him, stares at their joined hands; they fit, hers cradled perfectly inside of his. "It's been 10 years since I've seen my son. So I'm drunk because it hurts less, but it still hurts."
There is absolutely nothing he can think of to say. The pain of not knowing must be unimaginable. He wonders how she manages to keep it together every other day. "I'm sorry," he tells her as he continues to hold her hand, thumb stroking over her knuckles, because what else is there to say?
"Me too," she wipes at the tears that have once again slipped free. "But that's life, right? Sometimes it's shit."
"That it is," he chuckles into his free hand. Leave it to her to sum it all up so eloquently. He thinks back to the many times he's laid his troubles bare at this bar to be met with a sympathetic ear, caring eyes, and a nonjudgmental smile. He'd always left in a better place than he came in and that was all because of her. And she'd been carrying this with her. He'd never thought to ask. What a complete arse. That changes tonight. "Can I help you home?" he offers. The raised eyebrow she gives as her answer lets him know she's not that drunk. "I meant nothing other than not wishing you to fall to your death on those stairs, Roni. I'd hate to find somewhere else to avoid reading my students deplorable grammar if this place closes."
"I can't lock up with you in here," she offers quickly, too quickly. What did that even mean? Does she want him to stay? Yes, she wants that very, very much. When did she go from wanting to be alone to not wanting to be alone, she wonders. Roni wants him to stay, wants to curl up with him and let him hold her all night. Run his fingers through her hair, along her skin; recreate the patters he's painting on her palm. But that must me the liquor talking; the liquor and the loneliness and she'd hate herself in the morning, hate him as well.
She's an open book with her defenses dulled by drink. He can see the questions in her red-rimmed eyes, the internal debate in the way she bites her lower lip. There's no way he'd even consider taking her to bed tonight (another time perhaps when she's sober and not so desperately sad) so he squeezes her fingers and tells her "I'll lock up when I leave, bring your keys back by in the morning. Or midafternoon," he lifts the nearly empty bottle. Practiced drinker or not, she's in for a rough tomorrow.
He jars her out of her fantasy. Good. She needed out, needs to get herself together. "How do I know you're not secretly some thief in the night that is going to rob me blind? I don't even know your last name. How would I send the police in search of you?" she jokes, getting herself back on track, putting those walls back up.
"Because you trust me," he says matter-of-factly, "and because my very traceable credit card is still sitting on your bar top waiting to pay off my debts. Also, my last name is Sherwood, like the forest." He gathers up his papers and pens, tossing everything into the brief case. He leaves John Allen under the bottle. Maybe he'll claim he lost it, give the kid a second chance to earn a decent mark.
"Robert Sherwood, PhD," she says mockingly, but she likes the way it rolls off her tongue. "You were destined to be a literary professor. That has quite the ring to it."
"Since we're exchanging last names?" he still hasn't let go of her hand, has taken to toying with her fingers, absently tracing the lines of her palm.
"Miller," she gives an unenthusiastic shrug. "Nothing exotic or exciting there." She tips the bottle back; there's only a few drops left and she'll be damned if she wastes good liquor. It's bad business after all.
"Veronica Miller, no ostentatious letters, but the best bartender in town." He smiles at her as if knowing her name was some secret he'd hope to crack. It is, he supposes.
"Berenice," she corrects, cheeks flushing instantly at the confession, but then her expression shifts and she's trying to look sternly at him, but can't suppress the smile. "If you repeat that to anyone I will have you killed. My mother had several ostentatious letters after her name; none of which I lived up to. Naming me Veronica would have been too common."
His professorial brain kicks into gear tracing back names and meanings. They're the same basically, Veronica and Berenice, different cuts of the same cloth. "Bringer of victory and strong council," he slides out of the booth, offering his arm to help her stand. "Seems to me you live up to it just fine. However, I do think the nickname suits you much more than the original. We all find our own ways, don't we?" Roni lets herself he pulled up, colliding with him as her feet hit the floor. If he notices the stumble (he had to have noticed) he makes no mention of it, only holds her at the elbows until she finds her balance.
"I suppose we do," she wraps her arm around his waist, letting him take more of her weight than she'd like to admit. She's knows she's had too much to drink; the floor tips and turns with every step.
"Keys?" he asks as they make their way back towards the bar.
"Under the register."
He leans her against the banister as he retrieves her keys. If feels strange to be behind the bar, like he's invading her sacred space somehow, but she's staring at him with a smirk on her face and not looking the least bit put off by his intrusion. The stairs are shallow and open; a design feature that works great with the interior of her bar, but they're hell when too drunk to judge where the step should be. She stumbles twice, hiding her embarrassment in his shoulder before he turns her away, takes a firmer grip around her middle and mostly carries her up. She unlocks the door herself, taking keys from him as he stares dumfounded as to which one of the several on her ring she needs.
She doesn't invite him in and he doesn't ask to enter. His intentions had been true, just to offer a friendly ear and see her safely to her door. No matter how much he may want more from her, now isn't the time to push something they'd both regret. "Thank you, Robert," she says, placing a hand against his chest. "I didn't know how much I needed a friend tonight. It helped." She leans into him, arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders as she stretches up. He smells like pine and sandalwood; like the forest she used to take her son camping in before he was old enough to see her for what she was. Those were good times, the best she's had, and if she lingers against this man a little longer than she should to soak up some of that comfort who could really blame her?
He lets her hold, sooths his hand up and down her back in slow circles, leaves the other wrapped loosely around her middle. "If you ever want to talk about him, or about anything…"
"I will. Thank you. Truly." She reluctantly pulls away before she loses the willpower to walk into her apartment alone, reaches inside the door and retrieves a spare key. "To the back door," she explains, dropping the single key in his hand. "You can bring it back next time you need a quiet place to grade essays. Or sooner."
"Sleep well, Milady," he cups her cheek, bends down to place a barely there kiss against her forehead and heads down the stairs and out the back. Sooner, he thinks as he double checks the door to make sure she's secure inside. Definitely sooner.