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?

50. Chapter 50

Author's Note: As per FFnet's guidelines, this chapter is missing scenes due to adult content. The full version can be found on Ao3.

Trigger warnings: Discussions of disordered eating, discussions of grief and lost loves and dead parents and such.

---

Robin can't imagine much of a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon than with Regina's mouth around his cock.

It's been an utterly fabulous and lazy day—their post-shower snog had turned into an indulgent mid-morning nap, followed by a change of scenery to the den for sandwiches and a Netflix binge. They'd been stretched out along the sofa, Regina's body warm atop his, her soft curls tickling his neck, fingertips tracing lazy patterns on his chest through the cotton of his t-shirt as she introduced him to The West Wing. (While he must admit the show is very good, he's much more interested in her—the soft skin of her arm, the steady cadence of her breathing, the soft floral scent of her hair—than the telly.)

Halfway into the second episode, her lackadaisical explorations of his chest had wandered to his ribs, and then his belly, and then the thigh she's not draped across, and then, well, nature had taken its course. His cock had twitched and firmed up a bit, enough to be noticeable beneath the soft fabric of his sweats. Those meandering fingers had grown bolder, coasted over the stiffening length of him, up and down, again and again, slow, tickling passes until he'd been shallow-breathed and stone hard and not at all interested in the faux American politics of the late nineties.

She's been taking her time—had done nothing but touch him through his pants for a good ten minutes, and then progessed only to a languid hand job, slim fingers tucked into the warmth of his sweats, jerking him without any sense of urgency. But now, well… For the last five minutes or so she's had her mouth on him, had traced kisses down his aching length from tip to root and back again, swirled her tongue in lazy infinities over the same path her lips had taken, then repeated the whole thing again.

.::.::. SCENE REDACTED. READ FULL VERSION ON AO3 .::.::.

His mind goes white for a moment, nothing left but the rushing pulse of pleasure in his cock, the warmth and pressure of her, and then it fades to a pleasant sort of buzzing feeling. He's breathless, chest heaving as she draws off of him, crawling up and wedging herself back in her place between his hip and the back of the sofa, sighing her own satisfaction as she smoothes a hand over his pectorals, down his ribs.

He's boneless, weight sinking heavily into the sofa as he feels himself going all soft for her—cock, muscles, heart, all of him. And then she taunts, "You're not the only one who can make someone shout," and he comes back to life, laughing and groping clumsily for her hair, tangling his fingers there and pressing a kiss to her brow.

"I've never doubted your skills, I assure you," he swears, and then, "But that was bloody mind-blowing." She chuckles again, in that smug, satisfied way that makes his heart trip over itself, and then she burrows down a bit further into him, one of her thighs slipping over his in a way that notches them together snugly. He can feel the warmth of her against the thigh now tucked between hers, so he assures, "I'll see to you in a minute—just as soon as I get all my faculties back."

But she shakes her head, and says to him, "No, I'm good. That was for you."

"Regina," Robin says, like she's daft—because she is if she thinks he'll let that go unreciprocated. "You can't be serious."

"I am," she insists. "And also… a little tender." She sounds just a bit shy about it, and it has a thread of charmed affection weaving in with the little twist of guilt he feels over her confession. "Last night was a lot, and then this morning… The, um, garden is a bit… Well, I don't know that 'trampled' is the word I'd use, but..."

Robin chuckles at her continuation of their innuendo from last night, teasing, "Putting up a 'keep off the grass' sign, are you?"

She laughs, and he can see the way her brow scrunches, the way she shakes her head. "For lack of a better term, and only for the afternoon. We're going to beat that metaphor to death, aren't we?"

"It seems so," Robin concurs, taking a deep breath and letting it out contentedly as his fingers begin to scratch lazily at her scalp. "You sure you're good? That didn't get you all hot and bothered?"

"Oh, it did," she promises. "But I never intended to let you return the favor, so I kept most of my focus on how you were feeling, rather than how I am. I'm definitely hot, but not bothered."

"This feels very wrong, letting you go unsatisfied," he insists to her, dropping another kiss on the top of her head.

She lifts her head just enough to meet his gaze head-on, her own a mix of challenge and disbelief as she points out, "Robin, I've had twelve orgasms in the last, what? Eighteen hours? Unsatisfied is not the word I'd use. I'll keep until tonight."

"Alright," he relents. "I suppose."

She settles her head on his chest again, fingers taking up their wanderings, lazy and soft, a dreamy counterpoint to the casual heat of what she says next: "Besides, when I come again, I want it to be on your cock, and I think it's out of commission at the moment."

She's not wrong, but her words still ignite a little ache of want at the base of him, a delighted groan lodging is his throat as he turns his face against her.

"God, I love when you talk that way," he murmurs against her brow, lips pressing there as she gives him another of those low, self-satisfied chuckles he enjoys.

"Well, it feels so good," she murmurs. "The way you move in me when I'm…" She trails off before lending voice to it this time, but her fingers curl against his pecs for a moment, nails giving him a dull little bite that lasts barely a moment, before she's settling her palm on him again. "And we've had some fun this morning, but… not that."

"Mm. Now I feel selfish," he teases, jostling her just a little. "If I knew how much you wanted to ride my cock until you came on it, I might have sacrificed the tail end of that absolute cracker of a blowjob."

He feels her laugh more than hears it, her voice light and amused as she denies, "No, I wouldn't trade that. Making you beg was a lot of fun."

"Evil witch."

He hears that laugh, and sees it too, when she lifts her head again, propping herself up on her elbow this time to taunt, "You loved it."

"I really, really did." One corkscrewing curl has fallen down onto her brow, and Robin lifts a finger to brush it away, drawing it back and tucking it behind her ear. "I've loved this whole weekend—just being with you like this, being close to you, in every possible way."

She goes a bit soft when he says it, that teasing glint she'd still had in her eyes giving way to a warmth and sweetness, an intimacy that drops her voice to just the space between them as she murmurs, "Me too."

For a moment, they simply smile at each other, soft and loving, like the besotted idiots they are. And then she leans in for a kiss, just as warm, just as lazy.

Robin tangles his fingers in her hair again and kisses her right back.

.::.

She's not sure how long they've been making out like this, but it's long enough that she's both starting to get a painful ache in her shoulder from the way she's propped herself half on top of him, and a much more pleasant ache lower down that has her regretting her no-sex decision. She's shifted herself slightly, just enough for her thigh to be draped across one of his, the firm muscles of his quad pressed against where she's still a bit warm and damp. And she doesn't mean to grind on him, not really, but… well… she's warm and damp.

And they've been at this long enough that he's half-hard again.

It doesn't help that he's handsy—cupping her breast occasionally with his left hand, giving her nipple little pinches through the thin cotton of her pajamas, his right hand firmly planted on her ass. Cupping, squeezing, groping.

God.

They should stop this.

There's no reason for them to, really, aside from the fact that they've already had a ridiculous amount of sex this weekend, and she really should pace herself. There's an undercurrent of discomfort in the way she grinds slowly against his thigh—a heightened awareness of friction beyond the usual delight of such things. She should wait. She should give her poor overworked clit a chance to recover from last night and this morning.

But he's still pantsless, and it would be so easy… Her shorts are loose enough, she could just straddle him properly, tug one side over and sink down on him. Take him inside her, and rock and rut on him until she came just the way she'd said she wanted to—clenching on the steady thrust of him inside her.

Fuck.

"Mmm," she moans, breaking away from his lips, breathless as she pants, "We need to stop this."

Robin's brow furrows, those beautiful blue eyes confused as he asks, "Why on earth do you say that, love?"

"Because if we don't, I'm going to go back on my insistence we not have sex," she murmurs a second before she kisses him again, and, well, that's probably not helping her cause any, is it?

Robin chuckles into the kiss, the hand that had been cupping her breast rising up to comb through her hair again (it probably looks like a bird's nest by now, between air drying with no product and the way he's mussed it with his hands again and again and again).

When their lips finally part, he tells her, "I'm not really sure what to say to that. You know my feelings on the matter."

Regina huffs out a quiet laugh, her gaze dropping to his mouth as her teeth sink into her own lower lip.

"I'll do—or not do—whatever you want, babe," he assures her, before continuing, "but I do have to point out that after your son gets home tomorrow, it will be much more of a challenge for us to fuck in the den. Or any room other than yours, really."

He has a point there, she thinks with a little frown. Although she can't see why that's necessarily a problem—a thought that makes her laugh with how different they are as he adds, "And I quite fancy the idea of christening every room of this house, while we've got the chance."

"Every room?" she questions with a raise of her brow.

"We're halfway there," he reasons. "I've had you in the bedroom, and the living room, and the kitchen, and I suppose if we just count places there have been orgasms, the upstairs bath. That just leaves the downstairs loo, the laundry, the guest room, and here—we'll omit Henry's room for obvious reasons."

"Obviously," she agrees, shifting a little against that ache in her shoulder and pointing out, "But if we're counting places one of us has gotten off, we've already ticked off this box."

Robin shrugs beneath her and asks, "Want to go teach me how to do a proper load of whites?"

The snickering laughter bubbles up out of her as she drops her head to his shoulder—it's not this funny, but she's tickled at the memory. Him standing there with a sky blue load of socks and undies, perplexed at his failure. Warm fingertips trace soothingly over her spine as her shoulders finish shaking, and she settles down against him as she lets out an amused sigh.

"Another time, maybe," she dismisses, burrowing in a little deeper until she's finally gotten the wonky pressure off that shoulder. The persistent throb between her thighs is waning, too—or the urgency of it, anyway. Settling back down into a steady simmer that's much less tempting.

His fingers are in her hair again, scratching lightly over her scalp in a way that raises goosebumps and droops her eyelids.

"Mm, that feels nice…"

"Oh no, I'm soothing her out of the sex," he murmurs, and Regina snickers against him again, nodding her head.

"I think you might be."

He mutters, "Damnit," but never stops the gentle scratches.

"You don't think a dozen or so times is a bit excessive?" she wonders, because, well, who needs that much sex? Nobody needs that much sex.

"I think I want as much of you as I can have, as often as I can have it," he reasons. "And I think you're supposed to be focusing on self-care and being kind to yourself, yeah? What's kinder than as many orgasms as you can stand?"

She laughs again, turning her head up toward him and joking, "Probably one orgasm less than that."

Robin's chuckle answers hers, and then his lips find her brow for a series of soft pecks that have her eyes drifting shut.

.::.

She doesn't plan on falling asleep, doesn't even realize she has until she's waking up again, her skin dewy with warmth where she's pressed up against him, Robin still naked as the day he was born, his hand rubbing lazily over her back as he watches the TV.

She inhales sharply as awareness hits her, her head jerking up and nearly whacking against his jaw.

Robin's hand lifts to the back of her skull, his head turning to press his lips into her hair as he shushes her soothingly.

"S'alright," he murmurs. "Everything's fine."

"I feel asleep," she rasps, as if he'd somehow missed that in the—she squints at the TV and tries to make her brain work long enough to figure out what episode they're on—hour at least that she's been asleep.

"You did," he nods, another kiss falling on her hair, his hand guiding her head gently back down to his chest. "No harm done."

Regina frowns, and murmurs, "You're naked; aren't you cold?"

"Nah," Robin dismisses, his arm sliding down again once she's settled, squeezing her against him as he assures, "I've got a nice warm blanket."

Her lips curve at that, the disorientation of waking starting to ease off.

When he adds, "Although now that you're awake, I wouldn't mind putting my pants back on, at least," she chuckles and forces her muscles to work again, pushing herself up and back so he has room to maneuver. There's a crick in her neck from the way she'd been resting against him, so she spends the time it takes him to dress again bending her neck this way and that until it cracks.

He doesn't bother with his shirt, just tugs on his sweats and draws her back down on top of him, the two of them wriggling and rearranging until she's wedged between him and the back of the sofa, her leg across his lap, head once again pillowed on his chest in clear view of the TV.

She has the anxious feeling that they should be doing something with their day—going to the park, or a movie, or… just out somewhere. Anything other than lying here like a couple of lumps on her sofa. But lying here like a couple of lumps is nice, it's satisfying, it's cozy. And it makes something in her chest feel decidedly warm and lovely.

So fuck it.

She does enough every other damn day of the week. It's the weekend, they're alone, and this is self-care, damnit. It is. Lying here, with the man she loves—

Her heart skips a beat and then drums double-time as her own internal pep talk reminds her of what she already knows—that she loves him. Still, it makes her armpits itch with sweat, makes her breath catch.

Regina takes a deep breath in, and then out, and reminds herself that there's no use in denying it. Not to herself, anyway. She already knows the damn truth, might as well get used to saying it in her head, if nowhere else.

So, fine.

She's going to spend the day on the sofa with the man she loves, doing nothing. Absolutely nothing. Mindless nothing. Sex and TV.

Netflix and chill.

Multiple naps in the same day.

And that's fine, it's allowed. She's allowed.

That itchy feeling sticks with her though, so she focuses on breathing through it, on the feel of his fingers in her hair, on her back. On the steady lub-dub of his heart beneath her ear, and the cadence of his breathing. Eventually, it settles her enough to shut her brain up. Eventually, she manages to get back to that hazy, lazy feeling she'd had when she first jolted out of her nap. The TV drones on, but she's not really watching. She's seen it before, and the rhythm of his breath is newer, more novel.

She's half-dozing, Robin's fingers tracing lazy swirls across her shoulder blades in a way she finds nearly hypnotic, when her phone rings. It's unexpected enough to make her startle again, although her heart doesn't jump so far into her throat this time.

Not even when she sees Liam's face staring back at her. He's supposed to call twice a day, that's all this is. Nothing to worry about.

Sure enough, she answers the phone to Henry's happy voice, greeting her with an excited, "Hi, Mom!"

She replies with, "Hi, sweetheart. How has your day been?" And then barely has to talk again for a solid five minutes as Henry regales her with tales of everything that's happened since last they spoke. More s'mores, and learning the constellations.

"There's so many more stars out here, Mom! We walked a little further into the woods—oh, Liam wants me to tell you not too far, it was just like five minutes so we weren't by all the lights—and I could see the Milky Way! It wasn't very bright, but you could see it. Liam says you can see it even better up in Vermont where he and my dad used to camp, and that someday when I'm older he'll take me camping there too!"

Over my dead body, she thinks, still in no way on board with her baby boy rough camping in the middle of nowhere. Even if he is older.

She bites her tongue though, and is about to give him a very benign We'll see when he saves her the trouble and insists, "I'm not pooping in the woods though; that's still gross."

Regina laughs out loud, shaking her head and glancing up to find Robin smiling down at her, clueless as to the other side of her conversation but amused nonetheless. His fingers slip up to scratch at the base of her skull again and she shuts her eyes as she asks Henry, "So is it safe to say camping isn't so bad, after all?"

If she sounds a little smug, well, so be it.

"Yeah, it's fun!" Henry insists, conceding, "You were right. I don't think you'd like it very much, though. I smell like bug spray and fish guts."

Regina makes a face—it's no secret to Henry that she considers bug spray a necessary evil, the chemically smell a nuisance she insists on dumping straight into the laundry room at the end of a summer night. (She's glad Liam hasn't forgotten it, but she makes a mental note to have the washing machine free on Monday afternoon.)

Still, she has to ask: "Fish guts?"

"Uh huh. We got up super early this morning to go fishing. The sun wasn't even all the way up yet, but Liam says that's when the fish bite so that's when you have to go. And we caught a couple, and then brought them back here, and Liam showed me how to chop their heads off and clean their guts out. It was really gross."

He says really gross in a way that she's pretty sure translates to really awesome in 11-year-old boy speak, and she's glad he's having fun, she really is. Still, she can't help remarking, "That sounds absolutely disgusting."

"Yeah. But we had the fish for lunch, and it was really good."

"Why do you still smell like fish guts, then? Didn't you wash your hands after?"

She feels the vibration of Robin's chuckle against her cheek and has to fight the urge to press a kiss to his chest. Henry wouldn't hear it, but… what if he did? Better safe than sorry.

"Yeah, we did, but…" Henry's explanation stumbles slightly as he admits, "I um, I got some on my pants and stuff."

"I see," Regina answers, thinking that maybe they'll bypass the washer and send some items straight to the trash. She can always buy him more pants that don't smell like two day old fish carcasses.

The thought gives her pause, and a dawning realization that she didn't fully supervise his packing process. She thinks of the piles of new clothes he came home with just a week ago and asks, "You didn't pack any of your new stuff for this weekend, did you?"

His, "Um, no," is less than convincing.

Regina frowns. "Henry Daniel, I'd rather you get your new jeans dirty than you lie to me. Try again."

"I packed my old jeans," he insists, his voice slipping back toward apologetic as he adds, "But I brought my new taco shirt. I thought maybe Uncle Liam would think it was funny, too! I haven't worn it yet though."

"Alright," she murmurs. "That's fine. Just try not to get fish guts on it, alright? Make your uncle gut the fish tomorrow."

"He says we don't have time to go again this weekend," Henry assures her. "We're just going to have breakfast here tomorrow and then come home."

Regina stares at her fingertips, tracing patterns over the bare skin of Robin's chest, a lance of guilt spearing through her as she says (as innocently as she can manage), "Don't rush back if you're having fun."

That's 35-year-old Mom speak for Don't rush back, I'm having fun.

She shouldn't feel guilty about that; she's allowed. But encouraging her son to stay away so she can continue her booty call feels a bit like bad parenting.

"We have to leave the campsite at noon," Henry says, and, right, of course. "We're gonna get lunch on the way back, I think. So no fish guts, I promise."

"Good," she nods. "Where's your uncle?"

Henry tells her he's right there, then gives Liam the phone when she asks him to.

She answers his easy, "Hey," with, "How uptight would it make me to ask you to at least rinse the clothes he got dead fish all over?"

"Pretty uptight," Liam tells her. "Just throw them in the wash when he gets home."

"And have my washer smell like two day old fish guts?" Regina wrinkles her nose. "No, thank you."

"One day old," he points out, and then, "But fine, we can give them a rinse. If it'll please her highness."

Regina scowls, his teasing tone doing little to assuage her irritation. But bickering with him seems like it would take an awful lot of energy, so instead she simply thanks him (tersely, perhaps, but a thank-you nonetheless), and gives him a needless reminder to call again before lights out.

She drops the phone unceremoniously to the floor after she hangs up, wriggling a little to find a comfortable spot against Robin as he questions, "Fish guts, huh?"

"Ugh, boys," she gripes without much heat.

Robin only chuckles.

She's just managed to find the sweet spot, settling in with a sigh, when Robin speaks up again: "Can I ask you something?"

"Mm?" She replies, letting her eyes drop shut as he starts tracing soothing paths along her shoulders again.

"All the times you've told me you wanted me to be a man in Henry's life, that he didn't have any…" His fingers pause, his palm warm against her skin. "You never mentioned his father had a brother."

Regina breathes in deep, and sighs heavily, unsurprised by the question. Mostly she's surprised he hadn't asked it sooner.

"He's not really… in Henry's life," Regina explains.

"He's taken him for the weekend," Robin points out.

"Yes," she says, shifting a little against his side. "He has. He does this."

"Shows up out of the blue and takes your son for a weekend?" Robin questions, the doubt in his voice echoing the thin film of unease in Regina's gut.

"It's usually a day," she explains. "A ballgame, or day trip to DC. A few hours, and then he disappears again for months."

"I'm still confused," he admits, and Regina resigns herself to telling the whole tale, picking at old, long-scabbed wounds.

"Liam and Daniel were… close. They texted all the time, saw each other once a month, maybe. A little less. Liam lives up in Maine, and we were in Boston, so we weren't exactly near to each other, but it was manageable. They used to go on these brothers-only camping trips. They'd take tents and backpacks and go out into some wild part of, I don't know, Vermont or somewhere and go off the grid for a week at a time."

She remembers Daniel coming home smelling like sweat and dirt, with a week's growth of beard. He'd dump dirty clothes and track pine needles into their apartment, spend an hour in the bathroom and come out clean-shaven and smelling like cologne and soap, looking lighter in spirit, calm in a way she hadn't realized he'd been missing before his trip into the wild.

She smiles softly as she tells Robin, "Daniel called it brotherly bonding; no girls allowed. Which was fine with me—camping isn't my thing."

Robin scoffs and she feels it against her cheek, the amusement obvious in his voice when he teases, "You don't say."

"Hush, you," she scolds, still smiling. She keeps talking, telling him, "Their dad died when they were in high school—heart attack—and they lost their mom to cancer the year we started dating." Robin's lips press against her hairline, softly, as if she's the one who needs sympathy over the loss. "They had a few cousins, I think, but nobody close. For the last few years, they were it for each other. We'd spend the holidays together—except a couple of times when Liam went home with the girl he was dating—and I went up to Maine several times with Daniel just to visit. Liam and I got along just fine, but we were never really… close. And then Daniel died."

Robin's palm skates down her spine soothingly and back up, fingertips dragging firmly up her skin and making her shiver. Her lips press to his chest in response, a little peck to assure she's alright talking about all this.

"We were both devastated. I was pregnant, and I had always thought…" She swallows, licks her lips, and says, "I thought I would marry Daniel, and live in Boston, and enjoy the rest of my life with a safe man who loved me, and as little involvement from my mother as I could manage. But I was alone, and pregnant, and scared, so I came home. Liam wasn't a fan of the move. Boston was doable, Baltimore not so much. Henry's the only blood relative he has, cousins aside. And he's Daniel's son. He wanted us to stay in Boston – somewhere he could come visit more easily. But I refused. I went home, where I wouldn't have to worry about making ends meet on my own with a new baby. Daddy invited me to move back, to focus on Henry and… grieving."

"That's fair," Robin murmurs, there with steadfast support as always. "Considering everything you went through those last few months, I don't think anyone can fault you wanting to be home."

"Oh, they can," she mutters ruefully. "He does. He doesn't know about everything—my issues, how hard things got. He just knows I took his nephew and… left. Moved in with her." She says it with the appropriate amount of dread for a mention of Cora, then lets out a heavy sigh and explains, "Liam came down for a visit after Henry was born, when he was still tiny, and my mother was her usual charming self. She'd never liked Daniel, but at least he was smart, intellectual. Interested in getting a college degree. Liam builds boats. He wears flannel, and drinks cheap beer, and used to split the newspapers with Daniel when he'd visit – he'd take the comics and the puzzles, and leave the rest. Mother thought he was… common. Not worth her time. Our time."

"She'll love me," Robin mutters, and Regina chuckles lowly.

"Why do you think I've tried so hard to keep the two of you apart?" Regina asks, dryly, ignoring Robin's response of Jail? before continuing, "She said some things to Liam. Things about how he'd never be good enough for our family, that she didn't want someone of his caliber – or lack thereof – in her grandson's life. He told her that it wasn't her decision, and that she could basically shove it up her ass."

Robin snorts; Regina smirks.

"I'll say this for the Colter men – they had no fear of my mother. And no sense, either, when it came to dealing with her. She booted him out on day two of his visit, said she didn't want white trash under her roof."

"You didn't defend him?" Robin wonders, and Regina feels a lick of shame. Not so much that she hadn't stood up for Liam, but for the fact that it's only now occurring to her that she probably should have.

It's too late for regrets, she tells herself. And then she tells Robin, "No. I had Daddy put him up in a hotel nearby for the rest of the days he was supposed to be here."

She chooses to consider Robin's silence in response as him patiently waiting for her to continue rather than judgment for her throwing money at a problem instead of actually getting to the root of it and sorting it out.

"Liam resented the move even more after that, so the first two years of Henry's life were… difficult. He came down a few times, but it was always awkward. He wasn't welcome at my mother's house, so I'd meet him somewhere with Henry, and we'd spend the afternoon together, the three of us. But it's hard for us, sometimes, to see each other—we remind each other too much of what we both lost when Daniel died. We didn't have much in common except for him, and neither of us wanted to talk about him, so…"

"What, Henry didn't manage to fill the silence?"

"Henry was an infant."

"I'm pretty sure that boy was born talking."

Regina chuckles, drawing her fingertip back and forth over his chest. "I wish. It would've made things easier. As it was…"

"Awkward silences?"

"So many," she confirms. "Too many. Anyway, I thought that maybe once we were out on our own again, Liam would come around more. But he hasn't. Not really. All his fuss about wanting us closer, about my mother keeping him from Henry, and once he had an open invitation, he just… drifted away. He calls on Henry's birthday, and he calls on Daniel's, and Christmas. He talks to Henry, and he and I make as much polite small talk as we can manage before it gets too awkward. And once or twice a year, he'll call and say he's going to be in the area or that he wants to come down and see Henry. I don't love it – the inconsistency, the disappearing for months at a time. But I can't force Liam, and I don't want to.

"It's better like this—I don't want to shoehorn someone into Henry's life only to have them disappoint him. I can be Mom and Dad in all the ways he truly needs. If there's going to be a man in his life, I want it to be one who stays. One he can count on."

"He'll always have me," Robin's assures her. "Even if this doesn't work out, or you decide it's not what you want—"

"I know. With you, I know. But Liam is family and I still wonder, sometimes, if one year he'll just stop calling and that will be that. And I don't want Henry to be crushed if that happens, so I don't… try. Maybe that makes me a bad mother, but—"

"It doesn't," Robin is quick to reassure her. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to protect your son. Don't ever think it."

"But Liam is family–more than that, he's Daniel's family," she sighs. "Daniel would have wanted them to know each other; he'd have wanted Henry to know him. And I only had six years with him, Liam had his whole life."

"And Liam needs to make a bloody effort," Robin insists, his fingers finding her nape again and scratching in that way she's fast become addicted to. "Three phone calls a year and a couple of visits is a poor way to keep your brother's memory alive for his son."

Regina heaves another sigh, and wonders, "Doesn't he get allowances for grief, though? Don't we both?"

"Maybe at first, but he's had eleven years to step up," Robin argues, an edge of bitterness to his voice as he adds, "Death is awful, but at some point you have to push through it and put your child first."

Regina licks her lips rather than remind him that Henry's not Liam's child; she's fairly certain he hadn't misspoken. He may not talk about his father much at all, but Regina knows the tone of a bitter child when she hears one—she's fluent herself, after all.

It's her turn to soothe, her palm rubbing smoothly back and forth across his chest before she presses yet another kiss there. She doesn't know exactly what to say, how to respond, and in the time it takes to mull over her words, he absolves her of the dilemma entirely by pressing on himself.

"You've done that. Henry's your priority, as he should be. If that means you don't push harder for him to spend time with his uncle, so be it. It's not like you're keeping Liam from him."

"True," Regina concedes, her voice smaller than she'd like. She clears her throat and adds, "I think—I hope—this weekend will be good for them. Henry sounds like he's having a lot of fun, and… I just hope it isn't like every other time. I hope it's not three months before he calls again."

Robin lets out this soft noise in the back of his throat, a little hum of consideration, and then murmurs, "Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have Henry give him a call. If he wants. Maybe we can find some—"

He seems to catch himself, swallowing quietly and correcting, "You can find some reason to keep the connection going."

"I don't mind the 'we'," she tells him. "You're a big part of Henry's life, and mine. God knows I confide in you enough about my parenting."

"I didn't want to sound… presumptuous. I know he's not mine. You and I aren't even…"

He leaves that open-ended, because the writing is clearer and clearer on the wall where they're concerned, and acting like they aren't even is… well, necessary, maybe, for now. While she's sorting herself out. But still a level of denial she's finding it harder to maintain the longer she's tucked against his side like this, spilling her secrets and her fears and sharing gentle touches.

"You love him," she points out. "You've built yourself a special place in his life; I don't mind when you're proactive with him, as long as you don't try to override me."

"Never," he promises, tipping her chin up and sealing it (slightly awkwardly, considering the angle) with a kiss.

When it breaks, she settles back into her comfy spot against his side (or tries to, anyway—now that she's shifted she's lost the sweet spot) and broods over how she might be able to nudge Liam and Henry toward each other over the next few months. She won't push, she won't, but… she could nudge. Robin isn't wrong—Henry has to come first. And yes, protecting him from disappointment is putting him first, but that doesn't mean she couldn't open the door of opportunity for Liam.

He doesn't have to be the only one to reach out.

"They loved baseball—Liam and Daniel," she tells Robin. "So does Henry, so do I. I never paid much attention to it until I was with Daniel, but we used to go to Fenway all the time and watch the games. He always said it was a good cheap date."

"Shitty seats, then."

"Awful," she agrees with a quiet chuckle. "Cheap seats, cheap beer, hot dogs. It was a nice change from where I came from, and from the Ivy League. One of his trips down here, Liam took Henry to an Orioles game. The season's not over yet, I could… suggest he come down for another."

She could not sound less enthused about it, and she knows that, but it's not like Robin will mind.

"Could be fun," he tells her without much feeling at all. So at least they're in agreement, then.

"Maybe we could all go." Because there's nothing awkward about that.

"We could," he agrees with slightly more interest. "Roland would love it. It'd have to be a day game though—that last one we went to he was sacked out entirely by the end."

"Yeah…" Her voice is soft, barely there as she adds, "Maybe."

There's a pit in her stomach that she can't explain, a heaviness to her that she has no right to feel on such a wonderful weekend. Liam isn't that much of a downer.

She tells herself it's just residual sadness over the whole thing. Just the sucking pull of the black hole Daniel left in the middle of their lives with his absence. She's moved too close to the grief for a little while and the edges of it are pulling at her.

Robin must sense it too, because after a minute of silence he huffs out a tiny sigh and declares, "We should've fucked after all; we'd have been in a much better mood."

Regina snorts, and then snickers, her laughter lingering much longer than it ought to. But the crass remark has done its job, jerking her away from the gravity of that dark mood and putting her safely back in the pleasant orbit of their weekend of pleasure.

"It's not too late," she teases, lifting her head to grin at him.

"I thought it was too early," he points out; she'd said she wanted to save herself for tonight, after all.

"Maybe." Regina levers herself up until she's straddling his lap more fully and ducking her head to steal a kiss before she teases, "Maybe not."

He grins as she kisses him again, his fingers sliding up into her hair and combing it back from her face. Their lips press again, once more, another time, and then he gives her locks a little tug to ease her back enough to speak.

His brows wiggle suggestively, dimples popping, blue eyes impish as he asks, "Want to snog for thirty seconds or so and find out?"

Regina's smile blooms wider, her teeth biting at the edge of it. "You think you can convince me in thirty seconds?"

"Oh, definitely."

Robin pulls her down into a kiss, this one headier, deeper, with more promise.

And, it turns out, very persuasive.

.::.

It's been nearly twenty-four hours since he walked in the door when Robin shocks himself by suggesting they walk out of it again.

He hadn't meant to leave (hadn't meant to put his clothes back on, honestly) from Saturday night until Monday morning, but as the afternoon stretches into early evening, both of them are getting hungry and neither particularly wants to put in the effort it would take them to cook.

Plus, he's insatiable.

Truly.

He's gotten downright spoiled with how accessible and willing she is, and if he doesn't get them out of the house, he's likely to attempt to woo her into a round five. Since this morning.

God, what a brilliant way to spend the holiday.

But the body has limits, hers especially, and he's not entirely sure whether she'd just been enjoying taking it slow as she'd ridden him on the sofa earlier or if she was feeling a bit tender. So when his stomach starts to rumble, he tells her he'd like very much to take her out for dinner.

A proper date.

Since they've only had the one, after all.

And so it is that they've ended up at an outdoor table with a harbor view, the tabletop between them a mess of baskets filled with empty shells from the steamed mussels and crabs they've been sharing. They've almost decimated a basket of Old Bay fries, and emptied nearly a six pack of beers between them (she's on her second to his third; he should probably have her drive home).

This may be a date, but it's a very relaxed one. He'd popped home for a clean t-shirt and jeans, but nothing fancier. She's in denim, too, another pair of those shorts that drive him to distraction and a long sleeved top so thin he can see a tempting hint of her bra ghosting through, the sleeves rucked up to her elbows to keep her cool until the sun sets.

It's the golden hour, the early evening sun starting to streak the sky with purples and pinks, and the light plays off Regina's skin in a way that makes her glow, a breeze picking up to toss the curls she's left down and delightfully messy. He drinks her in for a moment, and feels his heart pound a bit harder. He's absolutely gone for her.

Regina reaches for her beer and takes a sip, squinting out over the water for a moment as she sets it back down. Her tongue peeks out to wet her lips, and Robin blurts before he can stop it, "I want to date you."

Fuck.

Her gaze flicks to him, unprepared and perhaps a little wary, so he hurries to assure her, "No pressure, and I'm not trying to change our agreement. I'm just looking at you right now, and all I can think is how bloody breathtaking you are. So I needed to say it."

Her expression softens, lips curving into a smile as she shakes her head and mutters, "Flatterer."

"It's not flattery if it's true."

"Mm," she hums. And then she sobers just a little, enough to make his nerves skitter up before she clears her throat softly and says, "I, um, I want that, too. I do. Especially after this weekend." He's the one grinning now as she reaches across the table weaves their fingers. "It's been really good. Comfortable."

"Thinking of throwing our deal out the window a bit early?" he asks hopefully, his nerves entirely replaced by a sort of giddy excitement in his gut.

It doesn't last long. Her encouragement peters out almost as soon as it began, her smile only a hair shy of a grimace as she tells him, "Thinking about it, sure. But…" Of course there's a 'but.' "I don't think we should."

He nods, resigned and (though he'd not admit it to her) a bit frustrated.

She's the one rushing her reassurances now, squeezing her fingers against his as she says, "Not yet, at least. I, um…" She glances down at the table, her teeth catching her bottom lip for a moment before she admits, "I don't think I'd be a very good partner right now."

Robin frowns, wondering, "What do you mean?"

"The last few weeks, I've been… a mess." She loosens her grip on his fingers as if she means to pull away, but he's not quite ready to let her, so he holds fast until her hold tightens again. "I think it would be better for me to take some time and let my brain get a little more… orderly… before we commit to anything."

That makes sense, in theory. It might, if this was an actual second date. If they were different people.

But this is her, and it's him, and while he's promised he won't push, he can't help but fight for her at least a little bit. He hesitates a moment, but only a moment, and then asks, "No pressure, just honest conversation?"

Regina's lips purse for a moment, but she nods her agreement.

"I don't need orderly. If that's what's holding you back, please let it go," he urges. "If we're going to be together, all I need from you is to want to make this work. I don't need perfection, I don't need all your ducks in a row, I don't mind a bit of mess. I'm not afraid of your… struggles, or any of that." Robin lets his thumb rub back and forth over hers and swears, "I want you, just as you are."

When she pulls back this time, he lets her, giving her a moment of space to sigh heavily and fiddle with her pint, turning it this way and that before she meets his gaze again. Her eyes have gone a slightly glassy—not quite wet but on their way—and he feels a little pinch of guilt he's far too familiar with at this point.

He expects her to shoot him down again, but all she does is ask, "What if I get worse before I get better?"

"Then I'll be here."

"What if I'm—" she sighs again, lifts her beer but doesn't drink it "—moody and distant and snippy and you decide you don't want to be here?"

Robin just smiles and assures her, "Not going to happen, babe."

"You don't know that," Regina argues, her lips pulling into a soft frown.

"I do."

"How?"

"I care about you." It's as simple as that for him. "You matter to me—whatever your mood. And besides, you were snippy when we met," he teases, earning a roll of her eyes, but at least it breaks the tension.

"I was not—"

"You absolutely were," he tells her, and she must agree deep down because she presses her lips together rather than argue him further. "And yet, here we are. If you're holding back because you think you're not good for me right now, don't. We've never been perfect, and I'm glad of it. I don't need perfection—I don't want perfection. I want us—flaws and issues and all."

Winning is much less satisfying this time.

The only clue that he's managed to either assuage her concerns or exhaust her arguments is the way she exhales and switches tactics: "It's not just me. You do realize that if we date, my mother will make our lives hell? Even without knowing what you did, she won't… accept you. You're a bartender-slash-musician; she will eat you alive. And me as an appetizer."

"I'm not scared of your mother."

"You should be," Regina sighs, admitting, "I am. If she thinks this is a bad match—and she will—she'll do her absolute best to convince one or both of us that it's not worth it."

"You never know, I might impress her with my charm and good looks," he flirts with her, slugging back a swallow of beer.

Regina is not impressed.

"You won't," she tells him plainly.

Robin grins, one hand going to his chest like he's been wounded as he scoffs, "Ouch."

"I'm just saying—Daniel and Graham were both good-looking and charming, and she was impressed with neither of them."

"And yet, you were with both of them for quite some time, were you not?"

He's got her there, and they both know it. He watches while she frowns, and then sighs, and then tips her head slightly.

Point, Robin.

"So. We'll be just fine."

"Maybe," she insists. "Maybe we will be. Maybe she'll be terrible—I had more than one argument with her about both of them. She kept insisting Daniel was a youthful rebellion until pretty much the day he died, and I cannot count the number of times she told me that Graham and I wouldn't last, that we 'wanted different things.'"

"Did you?" he wonders. Her brow furrows, her nose wrinkles, an expression of disgust that makes him realize a bit too late that his question gives the impression he might actually agree with her mother on something. He rushes to correct, "Not that I think she was right—I'm curious. For my own sake. Did you want the same things, before he met whatshername?"

"Emma," Regina supplies not-quite-bitterly. "And… no. I don't think we did, really. But that wasn't what my mother meant, anyway. What she meant was that she and Graham wanted different things."

"Good thing he wasn't dating your mum, then, or that might have actually mattered." She exhales, irritated, and Robin presses on, "I'm not interested in dating Cora Mills, I'm interested in her daughter. So frankly what she wants or doesn't want means fuck all to me."

"Yeah, well," she mutters, glancing down at the table and fiddling with the silverware for a moment. "You're not the one who has to deal with her. I am. And, Robin…" She whooshes out another breath, lifting her gaze back to his and telling him, "I'm just so tired. I don't know if I can do that right now—deal with her. I just got a month away from her, I'm not sure I can go back to her in October and hand her a weapon to carve me open with."

She goes overly chipper for a moment, plasters on a fake smile that reaches nowhere near her eyes and offers a hand up in gesture as she mocks, "'Here, Mother, meet my bartender boyfriend, so you can tell me I'm slumming it just to spite you.'"

When she deflates, he offers, "So don't. Don't tell her."

One dark brow lifts in a perfect combination of doubt and judgement he's not sure he's ever seen someone wield with the precision Regina does. She questions, "Don't tell her? What, forever?" like it's an absolutely mad idea.

And it would be, he supposes, if he'd meant forever. But he hadn't, and he tells her so.

"No, just for a little while. Until you're ready." Regina frowns at that, but doesn't argue, so he presses on: "As far as I'm concerned, what goes on between us is none of her business. She doesn't need to know who's warming your bed until you're ready for her to know."

It seems a perfectly fine compromise if you ask him, and he's managed to earn a shift from the judgmental eyebrow to the conciliatory one. So that's something.

"And then?"

"Then we'll deal with it." Encouraged, he urges, "If you don't think this will work, if it's not the right fit, that's one thing. But if you're just scared, or worn down, or worried about what your mum will say about it… we can get through all that." He reaches across the table to link their fingers again, rubbing his thumb over her emerald ring and assuring her, "I imagine it won't seem so scary once you've had some time to decompress."

Her lips purse, her brow tight with contemplation. She watches their hands, watches his thumb slide that gem back and forth, back and forth over the back of her finger.

Robin waits her out. Let's her think on it. Holds her hand through it all.

Finally, she shifts their grip, her thumb tucking in to turn the ring completely, the emerald disappearing palm-side and out of his reach. He can feel it pressing into his skin as she gives him a squeeze and says, finally, "It's not that simple. I…"

She breathes in, out. She's still watching their hands, but her cheeks have gone a bit pink, and there's a growing distance in her gaze, a restless energy kicking up in her and traveling into him from where their fingers touch.

Robin waggles their hands back and forth on the table and urges gently, "Talk to me."

Before she does, she pulls her hand away, sitting up a little straighter and dropping her hands to her thighs, rubbing her palms up and down them once, nervously, before she blows out a steadying breath and makes him feel like a complete idiot: "What you said last night, about not loving me any less…"

"Forget it," he cuts her off.

God, what a mistake that had been. A slip they were far from prepared for and he'd known it the moment he'd seen her face, the moment he'd realized what he'd confessed to by accident. She's not there yet, and he knows it, and he was an utter wanker for not being more careful with his words.

He gives her an out, insisting, "We don't need to talk about that; I shouldn't have—"

But she cuts him off, saying, "No, I don't want to forget it." They lock gazes, his nervous now and hers gone suddenly calm and warm. Her lips curve softly when she soothes, "I wasn't upset about it, and… I knew, Robin. You've shown me daily how you feel about me, and it's not… one-sided." She swallows, licks her lips, her placid facade slipping almost as quickly as it settled. "But the considerable number of billable hours I've given my therapist lately have made it very clear to me that I still have a lot of baggage that I thought I'd put behind me."

Baggage is never a great thing—manageable, and they all have it, but emotional parcels are parcels nonetheless, they still have weight and heft that can slog a relationship down.

And he should be focused on that, really, truly, but for a moment it's all Robin can do to keep from whooping for joy at that small (but huge) confession. Not one-sided means two-sided, means maybe she's closer to "there" than he'd thought.

Two-sided or not, though, he can tell from the tension in her torso that this isn't the moment for celebration, especially not when she keeps talking, telling him, "I couldn't figure out why I could spend two years dating a man who had the potential to get shot at on a daily basis and it didn't scare me, but you? God, I've been terrified. And I've finally realized—with Graham, I was never holding the gun."

His little moment of elation pops like a soap bubble, his mouth drawing down into a frown as he asks, "What do you mean?"

Her throat bobs with another heavy swallow, and she reaches for her beer, gulps down a mouthful of it, then sets it back on the table, staring at the pint like it can save her from this suddenly-fraught conversation.

She's still staring at it as she confesses, "I didn't crash Daniel's car, but I am the reason he was in it in the first place," gutting Robin entirely. His heart breaks for her, his hand opening on the table in invitation (she'd turned the ring away from his touch for a reason, he realizes with a little punch of guilt). "I've had to live with that, and try to accept that it's not my fault he's gone—which has been a Herculean task. There are still days I fail at it. And now, being with you… I have been so scared that you would get hurt and it would be all my fault."

He'd meant to let her talk herself blue over this, to hold his own words back until she'd said all she needed to about this wound he knows cuts to her core. But he can't, simply cannot, let that comment go unchecked.

Robin shakes his head and says, "Regina, I'm the one who made a mistake, not you. If I took the fall for this, it would be on my head. Not yours."

"You're the one who committed the crime, but you got away with it," she reminds him. If getting away with it includes blowing your whole life apart, sure. "Then I come along with my psycho mother, and your world could fall apart all because I was too weak not to walk away before our lives got too tangled up. It made me feel like a grenade. Like I was dangerous to you, like me loving you would hurt you. Like if I let myself have this, it would blow up in our faces and you'd pay the price, and it would be my fault for not keeping you out of danger."

"That's not fair to you," he tells her gently. "We both knew the risks, we both could have chosen to stay away—I knew who you were the day we met, Regina. If one of us should have stayed away for my sake, it was me. Not you."

"Logically, that makes sense," she agrees; he can hear the 'but' coming a mile away. "But I wanted Sour Patch Kids on a rainy night and my son doesn't have a father." Her voice breaks just slightly, and his heart with it. "And neither would Roland if things had gone differently, because I wanted… what? Kind words and a plate of eggs?"

It's said with such self-loathing and derision that he can't keep from taking her hand in his again. He can't not be touching her if she's going to stand there scraping open old wounds and holding herself responsible for them.

"Because I robbed someone, and got caught. My mistakes, my choices."

His fingers cradle hers, his thumb finding her palm this time and rubbing there, his voice as gentle-but-steady as his touch.

It does little to reassure her.

She shakes her head, tells him, "But I could have protected you. I could have said nothing when that stupid commercial aired, and Daniel would be alive. I could have cut you off entirely the moment you told me what you did, and you'd never be in more than passing, coincidental proximity to my mother." Her hand shifts in his, flipping until they're palm to palm; he's just grateful she's not pulling back. "But every time I tried to push you away—to protect you—I walked right back. I didn't want to walk away; I still don't."

"And thank God for it, because look where we are now. Your father said your mum doesn't know, right? So you're not a grenade, nothing's going to happen to me, and there's no reason for either of us to walk away. Nothing you were afraid of happened. I'm not going anywhere; you won't lose me."

Her frown deepens, her gaze dropping to the very last of the fries before she pulls her hand away from his. She nabs one of the fries and dunks it in ketchup, muttering, "You don't know that."

"I do."

"No," Regina insists, her gaze popping back up to his, a bit of temper flashing in her dark eyes. "You don't. Don't tell me that you do, because I have lived through how much you don't."

It's Robin's turn to look away at that. It's probably a bit unfair to argue that he knows he's not leaving right after she's talked about the death of someone who was supposed to be with her forever.

"You're right; I'm sorry," he tries to mollify.

She's still dunking that fry, stirring the ketchup with it, really; he's pretty sure it's just something to do with her hands, some way to channel her anxious energy as she continues, "Fate is a bitch; you can't tell me you know the future because you don't."

"Fine," Robin agrees. "I don't know; we can't know. But… Regina, babe… Please don't walk out on this because—"

"I'm not." She abandons the fry. Leaves it sitting there in the pool of ketchup and reaches for her beer instead, but that doesn't make it to her lips either. "I'm not walking away, that's not why I said that. All I meant was that this—us—brought up a lot of baggage for me. No matter what we know now, I spent weeks feeling like loving you would be a disaster. Like I shouldn't, like it was a mistake, like it was weakness."

"Love is never weakness, babe," he argues gently, and she scowls into her beer, finally taking that sip before she sets it down again.

She mutters, "Tell that to my mother," and before he has a chance to remind her of how wrong her mother is about that (and everything else), she continues, "I pushed all these feelings I have for you and all this fear down so deep, and bottled them all up, and now they're just… fizzing up everywhere, and I'm still figuring out how to deal with that. So now I have to reorient, and let myself breathe—and let go of all that fear, and blame, and self-loathing. It's a process."

She fiddles with her beer some more, not quite looking at him, but not quite looking like she's done, either.

Robin waits her out, and sure enough, a moment later she's taking a breath and telling him, "It's not that I'm 'just scared,' it's deeper than that. And I'll work through it—I want this to work, I really do." She looks up at him again, finally, her gaze open but a little wary, her teeth digging into her lip for a moment before she says, "But I only get an hour at a time with my therapist, and I need to prioritize my health right now. So could we table it for a few weeks? Can we put a moratorium on labels like 'love' and 'dating' while I decompress and get my head right?"

Something in her expression shifts, although if you asked him later, Robin wouldn't be able to tell you what. Something just goes softer and a bit more charged, like a mellow hum of electricity that picks up between them and makes everything feel a little bit warmer, a little more sharply focused. He'll remember her face like a snapshot years from now—the earnestness in those dark eyes, how they widen ever so slightly, her hand falling to the tabletop again, palm-up and open to him, the quick swipe of her tongue across her lips and the way the corner of her mouth turns up right before she tells him, "And then when I'm ready… I'll tell you exactly how much I love you."

His hand slips into hers, smile growing as he nods and says, "Yeah. We can do that." He smile widens in answer, her head ducking down slightly, and Robin waggles their joined hands back and forth, admitting, "I didn't mean to say it yet anyway, it just slipped out."

"I know," she chuckles. "You should've seen your face when you realized it."

"Well, I'd seen yours."

"You caught me off guard," she shrugs, then her smile dims ever so slightly, a familiar hint of caution surfacing in her eyes. "And if it's alright with you… when the time is right, I'll say it first. Until then, will you wait for me?"

Her thumbs rubs over his fingers, once, and his does the same in answer.

"Of course I'll wait for you," he says. "I've told you there's no rush and I mean that. Things can stay just as they are until you're ready to confess your undying love for me."

Regina scoffs at him, rolling her eyes and grinning, and Robin can't help teasing her a little more: "Unless you're unhappy with the state of things?"

"Mm, no," she hums, her thumb coasting back and forth again. "I like the way we are right now—being together, but privately. No labels, no expectations. That's what I want."

"Are we, then? Together?"

Regina takes a slow breath in, then nods. "Yeah. We are." She scoffs lightly, shaking her head and adding a half-resigned, half-amused, "Of course we are." Because of course they bloody are. Her shoulders sink just a bit, relaxing even as she says, "But I need to take things slow, so I can focus on me."

"Oh no, she's cutting off the sex," he pouts, but Regina is quick to reassure him.

"No, no," she insists. "I don't want to slow that down. It's become a, um, vital part of my plan for good mental health."

He laughs at her, then leans across the table to kiss her and murmur, "Thank God. Does that mean no more let's-wait-a-week-to-make-it-better torture?"

"Oh, no, we can still do that," she teases, and Robin groans and slumps back into his seat. "We'll be doing it by default, I think. We can't do Saturday night sleepovers every weekend or Henry will catch on—and then my parents will definitely find out because Lord knows he can't keep a secret. Plus, no labels may work for me, but it will not for him. The second he realizes we're together he's going to start planning our wedding."

Robin snorts out a laugh, sips his beer, and nods. "Wouldn't surprise me if he already has a binder."

Regina groans in agreement, and then adds, "Your son sleeps in your room which means no sneaking over there on the weekends, and you work nights which means no nookie during the week. So…"

She's right, he realizes, and what a sobering realization it is.

"Huh. Well, that sucks."

"Yeah," she agrees. "It really does. Good thing we're stocking up."

"I don't think it works like that. Hoarding orgasms for the winter."

Regina smirks and rolls her eyes, then gives him a far too proper look and questions, "So you're saying we don't need to have more sex this weekend?"

"Hey, now," he protests, sitting up a bit straighter. "Let's not put words in my mouth. I'm just saying… we'll have to make time, that's all."

She smiles again (she's been smiling a lot—he's not sure the last time he saw her smile as much as she has this weekend, and it warms him straight to the backbone to know he's been able to give her that). Then she shifts their grip, weaves their fingers, and lets out a considering sigh that is somehow painfully sexy before she proposes, "Maybe we could have a standing Friday night date? You can come over after Henry goes to bed, or come for dinner and stay. I'm pretty sure that's the only kid-free, work-free evening we have."

"Sure. Even better—we could have a lying down Friday night date." Robin's suggestive joking is met with a snort of amusement, but he can't help pressing on: "Or an on-all-fours Friday night date. A you-on-top Friday night date. Up-against-the-dresser Friday night date."

Her snort melts easily into a laugh, shaking all the way through her words as she says, "Those all sound good. Maybe not the dresser."

"I'll make it work," he insists, all confidence and bravado for a moment. And then he squeezes her fingers again, and drops his voice low, intimate. "I just want to be with you, love; whatever that takes, I'm willing."

One dark brow lifts just a hair and then falls, her good humor sinking with it as she sighs, "Even if I'm a grenade?"

"You're not. And we both know it." He says it with enough confidence to carry them both; Regina just nods, slowly, her attention dropping to their joined hands. After a moment, Robin adds, "But even then."

Regina meets his gaze and holds it, lips curving, head shaking back and forth slowly. When she tells him, "I don't deserve you," it's with so much warmth it would have him turning all to goo if it wasn't so bloody preposterous.

But it is, so he snorts and says, "I think you've gone a bit rosy-eyed over me if you believe that."

"Mm," she concedes. "Must be all the sex."

When she grins again, he answers in kind.

.::.

They've finished all the fries, even picked over the dregs that had gone cold and soggy, and they've lost that twilight that made Robin's eyes seem so blue and his skin so warm. It's dark now, and Regina is glad for her long sleeves. The breeze off the bay is just cool enough to make her cross her ankles together under her chair to bring her legs flush the whole way down, stealing her own warmth while she sips a seltzer and Robin has another beer.

They should've taken a cab, she thinks. She could've ordered a whiskey to warm her, and they could have gotten buzzed together.

But she doesn't mind being the sober cab, not if it means she can sit out here a bit longer and soak up the energy, the fresh air, the giddy loveliness of having Robin right across the table from her. Robin, her date. Robin, her… whatever he is. Her man. Her lover.

Ugh, that sounds terrible.

She'd been right to say no labels—none of them seem right. And there's no need for them anyway. They are what they are. Together, and that's that.

No more fighting it, no more trying to fit their relationship into some pre-formed box. Just… them. Together. And time to sort it all out.

She feels good. Happy. Full.

Loved.

It's a good night. A really, really good night. One she's in no rush to end, even if the server is taking yet another pass by their table, clearing that empty basket of fries and asking a bit too politely if she can get them anything else.

They're overstaying their welcome, but Regina can see other open tables, and she'll tip well to make up for it.

She's going to stay right here in her good night as long as she damn well pleases.

Robin takes another swig of his beer, his throat bobbing in a way that has her idly ruminating on the idea of trailing her tongue up his pulse as soon as she gets him alone. She can imagine the salt of his skin, the slight scrape of his stubble, the subtle catch of his breath.

Someday, she imagines, the wanting will ease. The part of her that goes molten and achy when he so much as breathes right will simmer down, and she won't be sitting at dinner thinking about licking his throat like some sort of sex-starved hussy. Someday, she won't be pondering if she can go another round or two when they get home, even though certain things are beginning to chafe just a little and other things are a bit… oversensitive-bordering-on-sore.

It's desperate, and needy, and glorious, and her son comes home in approximately sixteen hours, so she really ought to make the most of her time before it's all rushed foreplay and hushed moans and Not so hard, the headboard will rattle.

Robin is watching her.

Which is just fine, because she's watching him, too. And he knows it.

It goes on for another minute or so, this lazy, promising perusal of each other as they each sip their drinks and have no-doubt matching dirty thoughts about each other.

"Something on your mind?" he asks, finally, in a way that makes it very clear he knows exactly what's on her mind.

Regina opens her mouth to answer, but her phone buzzes near her elbow. She glances at it in case it's Henry; it's not. She sees the name on the notification and scowls, tells herself not to even swipe it open. But she's a masochist, so she does.

The message inside sours every sweet and sexy word that had been on the tip of her tongue.

"What is it?" Robin asks. It'd be impossible to miss the shift in her mood.

She sets the phone face-down on the table and forces a smile, swallows down the acid on her tongue and tells him, "Nothing."

Robin is not fooled.

"No it's not. Tell me."

Regina sighs, resigned, and admits, "It's a text from my mother."

"Throw it in the bay," he urges without missing a beat and she smirks, shaking her head. When she doesn't say any more, he says, "I thought your mum wasn't supposed to be texting you right now."

"She's not," Regina sighs. "And she knows it. And yet…" She flips the phone over again, pulls up the message and reads, "'Hope you're having a relaxing Labor Day weekend. We're at the Club, missing you.'"

Robin offers a conciliatory frown and says, "All things considered, that's not so bad."

"No, but now I have to answer it. Or not answer it," Regina explains, setting the phone on the tabletop again and laying out the rules for this particular game. "It's a power play—do I stick to the communication blackout that I asked for and that she agreed to, or do I have the manners she raised me with and be polite?"

Robin stares at her for a moment, then decides, "Fuck manners."

"Yeah. Agreed." She glances at the phone, still face-up beside her sweating glass of seltzer; she flips it again. Fuck Mother. They have a deal, and Regina is sticking to it. She gets a little rush of power up her spine as she declares, "I'm not going to answer her. But I wish she wouldn't do this. I wish she cared enough to leave me alone."

"She doesn't deserve you," Robin tells her. "All I've ever seen her do is hurt you."

"It's been a bad year."

"Have there ever been good ones?"

"Yes," Regina concedes. "Or, better ones, anyway."

She thinks of her mother sitting in her office, feigning innocence and blaming all this distance on Regina even while she tries to apologize for that horrendous brunch. Mother was wrong. Mostly. But she can't say it hasn't been on her mind… And Robin is her… whatever he is. Her shoulder to lean on.

So she tells him: "She said something the other day…" She stirs her straw in her glass, uses it to dunk the lime wedge down into the bubbly abyss. "She said that I claimed I wanted to fix things, but every time we saw each other, I came into it assuming it was going to go badly. That I was on the defensive from the moment I walked in the door. And she was right."

"It was warranted," he assures her, ever on her side.

"Maybe," Regina concedes. Because yes, maybe, it was. It was. "But I'm sure it didn't help."

"Neither did the years of gaslighting," he reminds before taking another sip of beer.

"Well," she smirks wryly. "That's true. I just… I wonder if I handled things differently, if…" Words stick in her throat, in her chest. She can't make anything take shape in her mouth in a way that makes sense to her, so she settles on, "Maybe it would be easier, that's all."

A little line furrows its way across Robin's brow, his mouth tightening for just a moment before he says, "It would be easier if she didn't pick you apart for sport."

"Yeah," she scoffs, dry as the well her mother's asking her to draw forgiveness from yet again. "Definitely. But…"

"But?"

"I don't know," Regina shrugs. She feels like a broken record when she tells him, "I'm so tired. I want it to stop—the conflict, the… abuse, the…" She feels like she's said this before. A hundred times before, just to him. And yet, here they are, back again. She wants to say something new, she wants to have something—anything—new to put out into the world about this. But she's tired, and hurt, and all she has left is a confession that makes her feel very small and very pathetic: "I just want a mother who loves me."

She's not looking at him when she says it. She's looking at the way the lamplight illuminates the bubbles in her glass, the way they scramble up to the waterline, fighting past ice and citrus to pop just as they reach the surface. It would seem futile if she didn't know it meant the little gas bubbles were free now.

And if it wasn't seltzer, instead of the answer to life.

She's so busy telling herself to snap out of this maudlin consideration of the behavior of beverages (for God's sake, Regina, get a grip) that she almost misses the soft hum of agreement he lets out.

She does not miss the way he drawls, "Don't we all?"

It takes her a second, but only one, to remember his mother is dead, but as soon as she does, her stomach drops like a rock. Her jaw follows suit, going slack for a moment before she stutters, "Oh, God, I'm sorry. I didn't think."

"It's alright," he dismisses, with a smile that doesn't quite pass muster.

"No, it's not—"

"Regina, really. It is."

That one at least seems sincere, his hand reaching across the table in invitation, his head tilting in that way it does that seems designed just to beckon her in.

She doesn't take it. Her palms are sweaty now; she feels like an idiot.

"It was a stupid thing to say," she insists. "I forgot for a minute; I was all wrapped up in my own family melodrama."

"It wasn't stupid," he insists, fingers wiggling to beckon her close again. "Stop beating yourself up."

She lets out a breath and gives in, eases chilly fingers into his surprisingly warm palm and squeezes hard. She wants to insist again that she's an idiot, that it was so stupid of her to say that—but the word triggers an urge to reach for her wrist. There's a rubber band at home on her dresser, one that should technically be wrapped around her wrist, and she should technically be giving it a quick, corrective snap.

One meant to keep the very insistence of her own stupidity out of her mouth. So she doesn't say what she's thinking. She just holds his hand, and breathes, and waits for the next thought to wander into her brain.

Robin just sits and rubs his thumb over her skin again, and again, and again.

"I wasn't calling you out, you know," he tells her, when the silence has stretched a bit too thin. "I was just agreeing. We both want our mums to be here, loving us like they ought to, and neither of us gets it. It's pretty shit if you ask me."

"It is," she agrees, the tension in her gut finally unspooling. He really doesn't seem mad at her. Still, she's cautious as she points out, "You never talk about her… I talk about my parents constantly, but you… never do. Am I just terribly self-involved or do you not want to?"

He chuckles, and shakes his head, says, "It's not you, love. You're not self-involved. I don't talk much about my mum because losing her was… awful. My dad was always a bit of a git, but it got worse after she was gone. His being a bastard made me miss her even more. I remember very vividly one night just lying in my bed, crying, and feeling like I had no home anymore."

Well, he went right for the deepest well of pain, didn't he?

"You don't have to talk about this," she tells him, but he waves her off again, extricating his hand to reach for his beer.

"No, it's alright," he insists, taking another quick sip. Regina goes back to drowning her lime with her straw. "You've shared more than your fair share of pain. It's my turn, I think."

"Only if you're okay with it… My tendency to over-share isn't a contract that requires you to do the same in equal measure."

"I know that," he smiles; it doesn't last long. "But she deserves to be remembered, even if it aches."

Regina frowns sympathetically, her heart breaking for him—for that little boy who'd lost his mommy. She thinks of Henry, of how young Robin had said he'd been. She wishes she was still holding his hand as he keeps talking, but she's he'd been the one to pull away and she doesn't want to push.

So she sits and listens, for a change.

"After she was gone, the house always felt very… cold. And quiet. Just wrong. Everything felt wrong, y'know? The walls were there, and the furniture, and the bed, and the pictures, and all that, but…" He breathes in, and then out, sips again and swallows before he finishes "...the warmth was all gone. The comfort, the…" He shakes his head, scowl deepening. "She was home. And I wonder sometimes who I'd be right now if she'd lived, because I know I wouldn't be here."

"You'd have stayed in England?"

"I think so," he tells her, shoulder shrugging up and then down. "I'd have stayed in school at the very least. Made something more of myself. I left England to get away from my father, and to spite my father, and because… there was nothing to stay for. And going back, it's not going home. That died with her. It's why Roland's never been—why would I want to bring him back to that cold, dead place?"

"I'm sorry. I can't imagine…" She reaches for him on instinct, freezing halfway through the gesture. Space, she was going to give him space. But he doesn't need it, it seems; his hand meets hers halfway and then they're linked again. She soothes her thumb over his and says, "If I lost Daddy and had to navigate Mother without the buffer, I might put an ocean between us, too."

Robin smirks sympathetically, then lifts their hands to press a kiss to her knuckle. "You make a new family—my mates were my family. And then Marian, and her family to an extent. And now… well, still my mates, and Roland obviously, and… you and Henry, to be honest. Your place feels a bit like home."

Regina swallows, and fights the urge to push back, to close off. To run away from the steady rightness of the way Robin has fit himself into their lives. Into her routine, and her home. Instead, she leans in—gives his hand another squeeze and smiles at him.

She goes for levity, teasing, "You only say that because I cook for you and make you do household chores."

Robin laughs at that, shaking his head, and insisting, "You do not make me do them—I did them voluntarily. And badly, I might add."

"Shrunken jeans aside, it was a wonderful gesture." She has a vague memory of how frustrated she'd been, of the way she'd fussed and sighed over it all; she's not sure if she ever said thank you. "I hope you know that—I'm sorry if I was less grateful than I should have been. It's all kind of a blur for me."

"You weren't," he assures her. "You were under a lot of stress, and I wasn't helping."

"You were," she insists with a squeeze.

"I was, and I wasn't. You asked me for some space, and I didn't give it to you—and I fucked up your personal items in the process."

"It's fine, it's just jeans," she dismisses. "And I needed that night—I may have asked for space, but what you gave me was better. You gave me a break, and… support. You took a weight off—they may have been some superficial burdens, but they let me get some sleep, which I desperately needed. I got to come home to a clean house, and meal I didn't have to make, and however irritated I might have been at the little mishaps… It helped."

He smiles at her, one of the satisfied, warm smiles that she likes so much, his head bobbing in satisfaction. "Good, then," he says, "Mission accomplished."

His grip pulses once against hers, then slides away to reach for his beer. It's almost gone now; he drains half of what's left in one gulp, licking his lips in a way that calls to that desperate hussy part of her again. At least the ghosts of their mothers didn't ruin the mood entirely.

"Can I ask you something?" he asks her, just enough hesitation in it that it sets her on-edge, too.

The mood hangs tenuously in the balance.

"Always."

"They're too tight now, yeah?" Robin asks; it takes her half a moment to remember he's talking about the jeans. "Is that— Are they—" He fumbles, clears his throat and tries again: "Is that, uh, triggering for you? Is that the word?"

And there goes the mood.

But really, who could expect it to recover from the trifecta of mommy issues, dead parents, and eating disorders in such short order?

Regina swallows thickly; she isn't cold anymore. She can feel the flush of unease spreading up the back of her neck, over her cheeks, laughter two tables over making her acutely aware that this is a public conversation about a private issue.

Nobody is listening, she tells herself. And then, Suck it up.

She takes a breath, and a chance on him, and forces the words out. If she does it while staring at the table an inch from the ring left by his beer on the wooden surface, well, nobody's perfect.

"Um… Well… I get your meaning, and… not really. If they'd been washed properly and didn't fit… maybe. But I know why they're too tight, and I know it's not me." She glances up, and Robin is watching her. Just watching, just listening. Not a speck of judgement, as usual. She takes a breath and forces herself to look him in the eye while she says, "And they fit, just… not well. I could probably stretch them back out in a few good wears, but I don't think I will—not right now, anyway. I wouldn't be happy with the way I looked in them, or felt in them, and that… could be an issue." He nods; she bites her lip. "I'm trying to be gentle with myself right now.

"I don't want to do anything that… harms you."

He says it with such kindness that it almost hurts. It almost makes a part of her want to curl up and die of shame over it. Dr. Hopper would have a field that with that, wouldn't he?

"You didn't," she assures him—assures them both, really. She tries to keep her voice light and dismissive. "I have plenty of other jeans. These will just go into the back of the closet for a few weeks until I'm feeling better. No harm done."

"Okay." He seems mollified; she still has worms in her belly, but they'll settle. They'll go away. Not quickly enough to escape his notice, apparently, because he tells her, "I'm sorry, I know you don't like talking about all this—"

"No, it's okay," she dismisses. She is supposed to talk about this. To let him in. To lean. She's leaning. "I know I said I didn't ever want to talk about it, and… I don't, but…" Regina takes a deep breath in, and says something she knows might open herself up to more questions she'd rather not answer: "The cat's out of the bag. And if you have a question, I'd rather you ask it than wonder. You thinking about my issues makes me more uncomfortable than you talking about them. At least if we're talking, I know what you're thinking."

"Alright. That's good to know. Can I ask something else?"

She thinks, If you must, but she says, "Yes."

Robin gestures to the empty tabletop between them and asks, "How are you feeling tonight? Are you doing okay?"

"I am," she tells him, with a small smile. "I'm really good, actually. It's been a long time since I've had a good seafood binge—not binge. I don't binge. Um…"

Shit. God. Why that word of all words when she's trying to sit here and have a normal conversation with him about this?

"I know what you meant," Robin assures, easy as pie.

His entire lack of concern with her word choice makes her feel both relieved and ridiculous.

She focuses on the former, dismisses the latter, and says, "Okay. Good. Anyway, um, dinner was messy and delicious, and I feel good about it." Because she does, she really does. She pounded a considerable amount of fried food and guzzled down a few beers and it felt good. Still, she has to remind him again, "But please don't check in on me after every meal. I don't like feeling watched."

"Right; you've told me," he nods, giving her a reassuring smile and telling her, "I won't; I promise. But we did gorge ourselves a bit, and I know it's been on your mind, so… I wanted to make sure."

Considering everything they'd talked about last night and their little hiccup this morning, she supposes she can't really blame him.

Regina offers him another reassuring smile and says, "I'm spoiling myself this weekend. Gluttony of all kinds—sex, food, conversation, whatever. It's a holiday, and I deserve a break."

If she keeps repeating it, she might manage to convince herself enough to lose these little bouts of guilt before the weekend is over.

Robin agrees, telling her, "Yes, you do," before he slugs back the rest of his beer and sets it on the table, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "And in the spirit of giving you a break... you said you need to be taking better care of yourself, right? Getting enough sleep?"

She nods hesitantly. "I did say that, yes."

"So perhaps…" he begins, gaze wandering over her in a way that's decidedly less predatory and more appraising than the looks they'd been sharing before her mother texted. "...after dinner, we should go back home, call it an early night? Skip the marathon tonight?"

Her inner hussy sits up at attention, this time for all the wrong reasons. She has one more childless night and she doesn't want to waste it.

Regina clears her throat softly, lifts one brow and questions, "Is that really what you want?"

The side of his mouth curls up in one of those deep-dimpled smirks of his, knowing and a bit caught. She can tell an early night absolutely not what he wants when he starts to say, "What I want… is for you to be happy. And you have a weekend to rest, so while I'd love to discover ten new ways to get you off, I think that keeping you up all night might be a bit selfish of me. Especially after the day we've had."

Regina lets out a rather unladylike snort of amusement; if he gave her another ten orgasms, she's pretty sure certain parts of her might just give up and fall off. But the wanting...

"Well," she concedes, "ten might be a little much, that's true. But I've wanted to take you home from a date and screw you brainless since we ended up on your couch back in June."

His smirk spreads slowly at the memory, teeth catching his bottom lip in a way that leaves no doubt about what he wants. All he says, though, is, "You said no sex that night."

"It wasn't for lack of desire, I assure you."

She can still remember the giddy heat of necking like a couple of… well, they'd gone a bit past "horny teenagers," she thinks. A few more minutes and she'd have been gasping an orgasm into his skin and feeling not the least bit bad about it. There's a little pang of regret to the memory—disappointment that they never got to fall into bed unbridled and free of the angst that followed that first date and carried them through the rest of the summer.

But regret doesn't change anything, and they certainly haven't suffered from a lack of intimacy or pleasure, so she tells herself to let it go. It's not doing anyone any good.

Robin pulls her out of her memory, suggesting, "So we'll keep it to one good round, then? And then some beauty rest?"

"I don't want to be coddled," she warns. "Especially not about my… mental health. But yes, that does sound good. I should get a good night's sleep before I have to go back into Mom Mode."

Robin hums his agreement, reaching for his beer again and then realizing it's empty. He leaves his hand cupped around it as he asks, "What time do they get back?"

"Liam's going to call me when they leave, but it shouldn't be until lunchtime at the earliest."

"So we'll have some time in the morning, then?'

"Mmhmm."

She picks up her seltzer and wraps her lips around the straw, sucking up the last of it until there's nothing left but a hollow slurp of air and a few resilient chips of ice.

Robin watches her while she does, and then his expression shifts to something far too innocent and hopeful—a look she's she's pretty sure she's seen from Roland before when he's trying to convince her she should let him have just one more cookie. So it doesn't surprise her that Robin pitches his voice to something complimentary and convincing when he says, "Y'know, Henry told me once that his mum makes the best stuffed French toast in all of Maryland. I don't suppose I could talk her into treating me to it for breakfast? In the spirit of gluttony and all that."

Regina laughs, shaking her head and telling him, "I think we'll need to make a grocery run on the way home, but sure. I can do that."

It can be her one last indulgence before she has to get back to real life.

Robin looks her up and down, once, that pleading expression going decidedly naughty. "I'm going to make inappropriate suggestions about the syrup, you know that, right?"

"I'd expect nothing less," she grins, swirling her straw in the dregs of her ice as she says, "I'm going to point out how sticky that would be."

Robin grins back at her, and parries, "I'd expect nothing less."

He won't win that one—the idea of being covered in maple syrup is about as appealing as the barbeque sauce was. Which is to say, not at all. It just sounds… sticky. Sticky, and overly sweet, and like a health issue waiting to happen.

But her continued refusal to let him have a little edible fun in the bedroom makes her feel like a little bit of a stick in the mud, so she tilts her head, studies him for just long enough that he lifts his brows in silent question. And then she leans forward, drops her voice low enough that she's absolutely certain none of the neighboring tables can hear, and teases, "You know… we still have some of that whipped cream you brought over the other night…"

She watches his eyes light up; he leans in across the table, too.

"Yes, we do…"

"You're not getting anything sweet and sticky on me tomorrow morning, but… if you wanted…" Regina licks her lips, meets his gaze. "We could maybe head home now, and… have dessert?"

Robin swallows hard, and reaches for his wallet, the air between them snapping with anticipation.

"I'll get the check."