Sorry for the delay in updating. Too many fics to write, too little time. But I thank you for the support you have shown this story, and I cannot tell you just how much I enjoy writing it.
Of course, I don't own OuaT. But how I love spending time with the characters!
"Mom, you look great."
She paused, sighing into the mirror, tugging on the hem of her red sweater, wondering if the form fitting cashmere was too daring for a second date. It certainly left nothing to the imagination when it came to the size of her boobs. She rubbed the front of her black slacks nervously, biting her lower lip without realizing it.
"You're fine, Mom."
"Jewelry," she whispered to herself, moving to her dresser and pulling out a small box. God, how could she forget her jewelry? She removed a silver chain and fastened it around her neck, touching the area her collarbone, stroking the soft fabric, wondering if the necklace would encourage him to explore that area of her body or put him off from touching her there.
Did she want him to touch her there? Was this even a real question?
"Mom?"
She added a matching bracelet, surveying her wrist with a nod, checking her hair again before delving back into her jewelry box. Then she paused, drawing in a deep breath, her hand idling back to her ribcage as she looked at herself without blinking.
What was she going tell him about her scar?
It was well hidden at the moment, but if things became heated? God knows they'd gotten heated enough last night, and that was in the back of the restaurant with his family and friends playing cards just around the corner. Tonight they would be alone—at his place—with no children, no father-in-law, no Frank or August, no—
"Mom!"
Regina breathed in, turning towards Henry who was sitting on the floor, his back pressed to her bedroom wall.
"Yes," she began, tapping her foot impatiently.
"You look great," Henry smiled, and something inside her melted into a puddle. "And Robin already thinks you're gorgeous. Don't worry so much."
"Who said anything about being worried?" she quipped, turning back towards her dresser, fluffing her hair for at least the twentieth time before she picked up two different earrings, holding them to the sides of her face. She stared into the mirror again, rubbing her sweater, squinting to see if the black of her lacy push-up bra was actually visible through the fabric or if it was simply her heightened paranoia playing tricks on her.
"Either," Henry stated, and she looked back, staring at him in confusion. "Either pair of earrings will work."
"And just when did you become an expert on women's jewelry?" she questioned, testing out the earrings again before tossing them down on the dresser in frustration.
"I'm not," Henry admitted. "But I promise you that Robin isn't going to care which pair you put on. Not when your hair looks like that and you're wearing that sweater."
Her eyes widened as far as they possibly could.
"And just what do you mean by that sweater?" she questions, her brows drawing precariously close to her hairline.
"Nothing bad," Henry assured her. "Just that it looks really good on you." She tugged at the bust area, afraid of stretching the material, yet uncertain if the fit made her look desperate.
"Besides, guys don't even notice jewelry when it comes to girls," Henry continued. "Trust me on this."
She turned on him so fast that her hair practically smacked her in the face.
"And just what do guys notice, pray tell?" she queried, engaging her son in a staring contest. "When it comes to girls, I mean."
Henry swallowed, his expression giving away nothing.
"A pretty smile," he returned, flashing a grin at her that made her narrow her eyes in suspicion. "And hair. Guys like hair."
She gazed back at her reflection, hoping her decision to leave her hair down tonight was the right one. She'd considered putting it up, thinking that perhaps that might encourage him to go for her neck. But Robin seemed to enjoy losing his fingers in her hair last night, twisting locks of it around his finger, ruffling it just so just before she'd had to leave. Her gaze narrowed, and she leaned in as close as she could to the mirror, tugging a wild gray out of her scalp.
There. That was better.
"And have you been noticing anyone's hair lately?" Regina asked, tossing Henry a glance over her shoulder. "Anyone I should know about?"
"Maybe," he answered with a shrug, pushing himself up off the floor in flash the moment the doorbell rang. "That'll be Mary-Margaret and David."
He was gone before she could cut him off, and she closed her mouth, blinking back the reality that her son was turning into a young man far too fast for her liking. She leaned her hands on the dresser, the smooth walnut surface pressing back against her palms solid and reassuring, steady and sure.
Unlike her life. Unlike anyone's life, she'd wager.
"What the hell am I doing?"
Her reflection looked as perplexed as she felt, and she traced a fingertip over the arch of her eyebrow, moving downward to touch small lines creasing in the corners of her eyes, halting when it came to a slight indention just to the left of her mouth. She wasn't getting any younger, Christ—that was obvious, and neither was her son. He was noticing girls now, and soon she would be watching him get ready for first and second dates. The thought nearly sucked the air from her lungs, and she took a step back, looking at herself but seeing an empty space in her life.
And when Henry was gone—when he left her for college and a life of his own—when he met someone who made him feel about a foot taller and convinced him that he could walk on air—who would she have then? Would she be content to live in this house alone, filling empty moments with work and more work, punctuated by the latest novel she'd checked out from the library?
Would it be enough? She'd thought so—she'd really thought so until a certain blue-eyed, sandy-haired restaurateur strolled nonchalantly into her personal space less than twenty-four hours ago, reminding her that beneath layers of strictly applied professional lacquer, she was still a woman. A woman who hadn't been really interested in a man in a long, long time, a woman who had gambled with fate when she'd returned to his restaurant and ended up making conversation and making out with him well past her bedtime.
It had been a long time since she'd felt so alive.
But here she was, standing—breathing—all thanks to the borrowed heart pumping steadily beneath her ribs, an organ keeping her alive yet unable to push her into living. Only she possessed the power to do that, only she knew just how much she was willing to risk on the highs and heartaches of putting herself out there. She swallowed past the sandy texture of her throat.
"I had a transplant, Robin," she practiced, rolling her eyes at the pathetic, wimpy sound of her attempt. God, she could do better than that.
"What—this scar? Oh, it's nothing. It's just where the doctors sliced my chest open and put someone else's heart in my chest to keep me alive. Mine just wouldn't cut it anymore."
Damn. She was getting nowhere fast.
Surely Robin wouldn't care about her transplant. Surely he would understand. Why wouldn't he—he certainly seemed like a reasonable man who would listen to her explanation and nod sincerely. He might then kiss her on the cheek and tell her that it was no big deal, that her scar didn't matter, that it really meant nothing.
But it did mean something. It meant her life. And the fact that it was giving her life had cost someone else their own. That hurdle still stood in her way of embracing what was right in front of her, a guilt she shouldn't feel but pressed into every pore and nerve she possessed, suffocating her at the most inopportune times. Like now, when a funny, available and undeniably beautiful man had asked her out for the second time in two days.
A man she'd like to kiss her into oblivion.
"Shit," she cursed under her breath, twisting her emerald ring around her finger, wondering if it was too late to simply text Robin and call off the entire evening. She was terrible at dating—she always had been. It always seemed such a trivial and fake pursuit, dressing up, looking your best, hoping to impress the other person into believing you were amazing enough to fall in love with before the bomb of reality detonated on top of them.
If Robin only knew all of the bitterness she'd harbored over the years, how many people she'd been willing to step on to get where she was, how she'd run more men off than she cared to count simply by being herself. Surely he'd realize fairly quickly that he could do better than a single mother with a sharp tongue and a decent ass, that while she might turn his head for now, eventually she'd make him turn and run.
He would hurt when he learned that a mother of three a few doors down from her in the hospital hadn't been as lucky as she, how a match had been found for Regina while the other woman died but a few days later. Regina lived. But the other woman…and the unfortunate person whose heart she now possessed…
Damn it. This wasn't going to work.
She might as well accept that fact now and cut ties with Mr. O'Dimples before she got in over her head and began to drown in this pull of this man's undertow.
She picked up her phone, staring mutely at the screen, attempting to swallow down the bitter taste pushing up her throat at the mere thought of what she was about to do. Come on, she instructed herself. This shouldn't be that difficult.
But it was, and shit, she didn't know what she was supposed to do with that fact. She barely knew the man—they'd just met yesterday. Just then the phone vibrated in her hand, startling her so badly that she nearly dropped the damned thing.
A text. From Robin. Her heart shot up into her throat.
I hope you're not getting too dressed up. It's just me in the kitchen, after all, and I'm afraid I have flour in my hair.
Shit. He was cooking—for her. Spending his free time in a kitchen, surrounded by pots and pans and flour, evidently, when he spent most of his life in a restaurant, for Christ's sake.
Then another alert.
I'm looking forward to seeing you again, Regina. I can't tell you how much I enjoyed last night.
Well that did it.
Her stomach sank as butterflies went wild in her rib cage, her fingers numb and tingly at the same time. He wanted to see her again. He was looking forward to it, he had enjoyed their time together, he had fucking cooked for her. There was no getting out of this date now.
Thank God.
"Wow."
She turned on her heels too quickly, nearly bumping her hip into the dresser in the process only to gaze directly into the face of a beaming Mary Margaret.
"You look amazing, Regina. Absolutely amazing."
She waved her off as best she could, trying to bat down the pesky moths in her stomach with a holey net.
"You've looked better," Regina couldn't help but point out, gesturing towards a splotch of something on the other woman's shirt. Mary Margaret laughed, rubbing at the stain as if it were nothing.
"Food coloring," she explained with a shrug. "Since Henry asked to stay over, I thought we might ice some cookies tonight."
"He asked to do what?"
Mary Margaret was blinking rapidly, her mouth moving even though no sound came out as she looked over her shoulder and down the stairs.
"I thought, I mean," she stammered. "He texted us earlier, saying he thought it would be fun to spend the night at our place. His bag is packed and waiting by the front door. I assumed that the two of you had discussed it."
"Well we haven't," Regina shot back, rubbing her fingers over her scalp as she attempted to process this bit of information. What in God's name had possessed her son to pull a stunt like this? "Did he say anything else, anything at all?"
Mary Margaret chewed her lower lip, and Regina rolled her eyes back in her in time with her shoulders.
"You're a terrible liar," Regina stated. "You might as well tell me and get it over with."
The younger woman pressed her mouth together as she tilted her head, starting to speak before she shut her mouth again and decided to start over.
"He just wants you to be able to enjoy yourself, Regina," Mary Margaret explained, taking two steps in the other woman's direction. "He's been concerned about you over the past year—we all have."
"Well, there's no need," Regina snapped, knowing she sounded about as convincing as a used tire salesman. "I'm fine."
Mary Margaret moved into her space.
"I know," she agreed, a motherly tone creeping in to her tone that usually annoyed the hell out of Regina. "You're always fine, always strong, always able to deal with whatever life throws at you. But last night…"
Her voice trailed off, her eyes lighting up in a way that was almost magical.
"Last night was different," Mary Margaret continued. "Last night when you were flirting with Robin, you actually seemed happy."
Regina's knees felt wobbly, and she reached out for the dresser, clutching its rim for support as her own feelings stared her in the face.
"You can't deny it, can you?"
She swallowed audibly, clasping the furniture until she was certain her knuckles were white.
"I could," Regina managed, clearing her throat as she forced herself to hold Mary Margaret's gaze. "If I wanted to."
"But you don't," Mary Margaret reasoned, a smile nearly as broad as her rounding belly breaking across her face. "And that's a good thing."
She gave Regina's arm a squeeze.
"Enjoy tonight," Mary Margaret continued. "Don't worry about Henry, or me and David, or your patients, your scar, or anything else, alright? Just let yourself bask in the attentions of a very attractive man who is obviously pretty taken with you."
"You want me to have sex?" Regina questioned, watching Mary Margaret's brows fly up a full inch. "I just met the man, you know."
"I want you to do whatever you feel like doing," Mary Margaret clarified. "If you end up in his bed, good for you. If you fall asleep on the couch watching I Love Lucy and Laverne and Shirley reruns, that's great, too. There's nobody dictating what you should or shouldn't do tonight except you, Regina, and I think you should run with that."
An unexpected thrill ran up and down her limbs, making her shiver all over. If it came down to watching old TV shows or making whoopee on his couch, she already knew which she preferred. She was fairly certain she knew which option Robin would choose, too, and at this point there was no alcohol involved.
Damn. She was doomed before she even got to his house. Face it—she'd been doomed from the moment he'd challenged her Italian Cream Cake and tossed her that grin that did things to her.
But there was her scar to think about. If her sweater came off, there would be no going back, and God knew there was no way in hell he'd let her get by without an explanation. Perhaps she should take it easy on the wine and opt for Lucy and Ricky, after all.
"I'm not good and running with things," Regina admitted, staring at her feet rather than at her friend. "You know that."
"That's because you overanalyze everything," Mary Margaret returned, giving Regina's arm a gentle nudge. "Some things can't be reasoned away or explained, Regina. Some things are just meant to be felt and enjoyed. Don't be afraid to let go."
"That's easy for you to say," Regina shot back. "You and your Prince Charming have been together since you met in college. You've never had your heart torn out of your chest and crushed right in front of you as the love of your life walks away and doesn't look back."
"No," Mary Margaret agreed. "I haven't. But I have been hurt, Regina. I know how it feels to lose people I love, believe me."
Regina closed her eyes, shame ricocheting across every nerve. Over the past five years, her friend had lost both of her parents and suffered a miscarriage at thirteen weeks.
"I'm sorry," Regina uttered. "What I just said was…inexcusable."
Mary Margaret touched her other arm, turning Regina slowly until they were facing head on.
"No," Mary Margaret insisted. "It was wrong and somewhat painful, but far from inexcusable."
Regina swallowed hard, sniffing back emotion hitting her out of nowhere.
"I don't know what to do," Regina confessed, her voice barely audible to her own ears. "I really like this man, and…" She paused, drew in a shaky breath and did her best to steady her hands. "I'm scared. There. I said it. Are you happy now? "
God, she felt like sinking into the carpet.
"It's ok to be scared," Mary Margaret assured her. "Don't you think I was half-terrified when I found out I was pregnant again, after losing our first baby just when we thought we were out of the woods? God, I didn't even tell David we were pregnant for two weeks, if you remember. I told you."
Regina nodded, licking her upper lip.
"But you're doing so well this time," she put in, giving Mary Margaret a half-smile. "You look great, the baby is growing and developing on schedule."
"Exactly," the other woman cut in. "We're half-way there now, and all indications are that everything will go just as we want it to go. But there are nights I can't sleep, when I just lie there and think about this child, and I relive what happened before, over and over again. I don't know how I'd survive if I lost this baby, too, Regina, I really don't. But that fear didn't stop us from trying again. Some things are worth the risk. And love—love is always worth the risk."
"We're not in love," Regina scoffed, shaking her head a bit too decisively.
"Not yet," Mary Margaret grinned. "But you're off to one hell of a start."
"And if it collapses before it ever gets going?" Regina asked, feeling her resistance dissolve at an alarming rate. "What then?"
"Then enjoy it for what it is," Mary Margaret suggested. "There's nothing wrong with having a little fun, Regina. And if that fun includes a man with dimples that just won't quit, well, all the better for you."
She smiled then, she couldn't help it, and she bit her lower lip, wondering if she was going to have to reapply her lipstick before she ever left the house.
"I'll bet he's one hell of a kisser," Mary Margaret goaded, giving Regina a wink.
"Oh, God," Regina sighed. "We are not going there." She glanced at the clock on her dresser, inhaling sharply at the numbers staring back at her. "And besides. I think it's time you two and Henry hit the road. I need to leave in about ten minutes."
Mary Margaret nodded and took the hint, moving towards the door frame before turning back to her friend.
"Enjoy your night," the younger woman threw back before she moved out of the bedroom. Regina listened to her footsteps as they moved down the stairs, heard muffled conversation from the ground floor and jumped slightly as her front door opened and then clicked shut. The house was quiet then, too quiet, and she moved to her bedroom window, watching Henry climb into the Nolan's back seat as David hoisted her son's duffle bag into the trunk. Then the back window rolled down, and Henry was looking up towards her window, waving good-bye in a manner that physically tugged at her heart. She waved back, clutching her necklace until the boy's wave turned into an exaggerated thumbs up.
What was she going to do with that son of hers? More to the point, what was she going to do about the man who was waiting for her to arrive in about half an hour?
"Maybe it is time to let go," she whispered to herself, her feet seemingly glued to the carpet as she stared absently out at her empty street long after the Nolans had driven out of sight.
"It's about time you got here."
Robin opened the front door fully, ushering August inside, his brows creasing at the few flakes of snow that were daring to dot the skyline just before he shut the door. There wasn't supposed to be a storm tonight, at least not that he remembered from this morning's forecast.
"Relax," August stated, dusting off the front of his heavy jacket. "We're only supposed to get a dusting."
Robin's brows drew up into his scalp.
"You remember what happened the last time they told us to expect a dusting," Robin returned, pulling back the drapes so he could peek out the window.
"If you're referring to the blizzard that dumped over two feet of snow on top of us two years ago, how could I forget?" August shrugged, rubbing his hands together. "Pop's heat went out, if you remember, and he nearly set the house on fire using that ancient space heater of his." August shuddered at the memory as Robin stared out the glass yet again. "Is Roland ready to go?"
"He should be," Robin stated, glancing up the staircase to their bedrooms. "I know his suitcase has been packed since lunch time. He went back upstairs a few minutes ago to grab a few valuables."
"A.k.a. his stuffed animals," August grinned, sliding his hands into his pockets. "Last time, he brought so many he barely left enough room in the bed for himself."
Robin chuckled, returning his attention to the steadily darkening sky and rather pregnant looking clouds. He sincerely hoped the forecasters were right this time. He couldn't stomach the thought of Regina driving in the midst of a blizzard, although the idea of her getting snowed-in certainly had its charms.
"Thank you for doing this," Robin stated as he let the curtain fall back in place. "I know watching Roland all night isn't exactly a relaxing night off…"
"It's fine," August interrupted, waving him off. "Pop's already made us a pizza to toss in the oven, and I promised him I'd teach him how to play poker this evening."
"Poker?" Robin shot back. "For God's sake, he only just mastered Chutes and Ladders a few months ago. Don't you think something like Candy Land would be more appropriate?"
August tried to bite back a smile, shaking his head ruefully.
"Last time he stayed with me, he very nearly ran me out of pocket change playing Gin Rummy," August admitted as Robin's expression morphed between amused and mildly horrified. "Come on, Rob, he hangs out with us in the back of the restaurant almost every night. Cards are in his blood—you might as well accept it."
"I accept that my Italian relatives are not always the best influence on a growing boy," Robin glowered, moving to his staircase and looking directly up at Roland's bedroom door.
"You couldn't ask for any better, and you know it," August retorted, crossing his arms and staring back at Robin's unconvinced expression. "You are planning on cleaning up a bit before Regina gets here, I hope."
Robin sighed, rubbing more flour out of his hair as he stared down at his marinara splotched gray sweat pants and what used to be a white V-neck t-shirt.
"What? You don't think she'll go for the domestic look?" Robin touted in response.
"Domestic, maybe," August replied. "Human meatball—probably not. Although there is something to be said for trying to lure her to your body by wearing spaghetti-flavored clothes."
Robin rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest.
"I am not cooking for Regina to lure her into sex," he insisted, his eyes unblinking. "I happen to like her very much."
"Whatever, Don Juan," August retorted. "But you're the one who asked if Roland could spend the night with me and Pop. If you expect me to believe you're planning on playing Parcheesi with her for hours on end, I'm not buying it."
"I'm not sure what time we'll be finished or what we'll get into," Robin explained. "And Roland's bedtime is…"
"Subject to change," August cut in. "For God's sake, the kid spends most of his time at the restaurant, helping with the dinner crowd and working his charm on the customers. He'll get to bed before midnight, I promise." He paused then, taking two steps in Robin's direction in spite of the reprimanding look on the other man's face. "Listen, I'm on your side here, Rob. We all are. If Regina stays over, that's great with us. We're just happy to see you back in the land of the living."
Robin's ears began to burn as a lump took up residence in his throat, and he looked around the living room, his eyes coming to rest on his wedding portrait still hanging in the same place it had been for nearly ten years.
"It's just odd, you know," he began, his eyes fixed on the face of his bride. "The fact that I met a woman like Regina on the anniversary of Marian's death." He swallowed hard, rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze moved to his feet. "And it's her birthday, of all things. The very day I've come to associate with death is one that Regina associates with life. Rather ironic, wouldn't you say?"
His chest constricted and swelled simultaneously, and his eyes misted over as he looked at Marian's smile beaming back at him from a day a lifetime ago.
"I'd say it's healthy," August stated, resting his hand on Robin's shoulder. "That you're interested. That you've invited her over. That you're remembering that you're still a man, and that you're actually considering asking her to stay over."
"Gina's staying over?"
Both men's heads snapped back in a second, taking in the form of an overly-excited Roland standing on the edge of the stairs.
"If Gina's staying here, then I want to stay, too," the boy continued, dragging a sack of toys behind him as he descended to the ground floor. "Please, Daddy! I promise to be good."
"I didn't say that Regina was staying over," Robin countered, skewering a retreating August with his eyes. "And don't you remember how I told you about how dating works? That grown-ups need some time alone together to see if they can get along?"
"But you two were getting along great last night," Roland argued with a smile. "Especially when you were kissing."
Robin felt the beginnings of a headache behind his eye sockets, and he pressed the bridge of his nose, wondering just how the hell he was supposed to get Roland and August out of the house, finish cooking dinner for Regina and make himself presentable in less than half an hour.
Dinner…how long had he been talking to August? Oh, shit.
"What's that smell, Daddy?" Roland asked as if on cue, his nose wrinkling in time with August's.
"No," Robin uttered, turning on his heels and running to the kitchen. "No, oh no, oh no!"
The oven was smoking, there was no other word for it, and he grabbed an oven mitt and hoisted it over his hand, opening the oven door, allowing billows of smoke to flow out and invade the room. He backed up until most of it had passed then reached in as his heart sank to his knees, pulling out a baking sheet with a charred lump sitting on top of it that looked about as appetizing as it smelled.
"What's that?" Roland asked, his face scrunched up in confusion.
"It's supposed to be peasant bread," Robin answered, staring at it as if he should have had it insured. "Shit. What am I supposed to do now?"
"You're not supposed to say that word," Roland uttered, his eyes now the diameter of silver dollars. "Even though Uncle Frank says it all the time."
Just then the kettle lid began to jiggle and shake, and Robin turned around just in time to see marinara sauce begin to ooze over the corners of the large pot and down the sides. He grabbed the scorching dish and moved it to a cool burner, waving the mitt helplessly over the now steaming goop of tomato sauce charring stubbornly to his stovetop.
"Great," Robin sighed, wiping his now sweaty brow with his bare arm. "Just great. So much for impressing her with my cooking skills."
"That's never a good plan," August interjected before he began to cough and cover his nose with his sleeve. "Too much can go wrong."
"No kidding," Robin practically shouted, trying to quell the cresting waves of frustration smacking him from all sides.
His stomach did a back flip, and he prayed he wouldn't puke all over the kitchen floor. He surveyed the damage, knowing it was beyond him to rectify everything in the short amount of time he had left and wondering where in God's name he was supposed to even start.
"Is the smoke detector broken?"
It was August who posed the question, and Robin shot him an exasperated look, knowing the question was a valid one as smoke stung their eyes yet no alarm began to sound.
"I replaced the batteries on New Year's Day," Robin stated, shooting a glance up at the white disc mounted to the wall. The light was blinking green, but the device was as silent as the grave, a fact that both pleased and sickened him. He heard August open the window over the sink, and he and Roland began to fan the kitchen as Robin attempted to clean up the mess that was supposed to have been dinner.
"She's going to be here in about twenty minutes," he murmured, raking his scalp with his fingers as he gnawed his lower lip to distraction. He looked back at August, who paused his arm waving and held up his phone.
"I've already texted Pop," August stated. "Told him we had an emergency here. He'll be delivering food a.s.a.p."
Robin sucked air in too deeply, making him cough so hard he was forced to bend over.
"Thank you," he managed, making himself cough yet again. He poured himself a glass of water, dumping the rest of it over his head into the sink after drinking his fill. What remained of the powder dripped down his scalp, and he grabbed a clean dish towel and rubbed his head, drying his hair in a matter of seconds.
At least his hair was now in decent shape. As for the rest of him and the kitchen…damn it.
It was shaping into one hell of a night already.
They all set about cleaning up the mess, throwing away the lump of coal that was supposed to have been dinner, scrubbing the stove-top, washing the few dishes that remained in the sink.
"Go clean up, Rob," August instructed as he shot a worried glance at the clock. "I'll take care of whatever's left."
He took him up on that offer, dashing to his bedroom and grabbing the khakis he had pressed earlier in the day. He donned a fresh tank top before sliding on a white button-down with a collar starched so stiff it would make Mr. Darcy proud. Teeth brushed, Scope gargled, a dash of Bvlgari Pour Homme Soir in all the right places, and he dared to step back a take a look in the mirror, somewhat pleased and more than a little terrified by his appearance.
Did he look like he was trying too hard? He certainly felt like a bumbling frat boy doing his best to impress the Homecoming Queen before falling flat on his face in the mud. He sighed, gazing down at a small, framed picture of his wife, his expression softening as he smiled at her.
"What do you think about all this?" he asked, biting his lower lip at the silence that served as his response. "I'm acting like a complete idiot, aren't I?" He stroked her cheek through the glass, feeling his heart squeeze as it always did when he spoke privately with Marian. "Of course, you didn't seem to mind my idiotic tendencies, did you my darling?"
Silence greeted his query, the only sounds in the house coming from August and Roland just down the hall. He gazed back at himself, noting how his beard looked a bit grayer, how a few strands of his hair actually stuck out before he grabbed a dab of gel and set them into submission.
What the hell was he doing?
The dating world scared the shit out of him, it always had, yet here he stood, nervous as a seventeen year old virgin trying to work up his nerve, wondering for the umpteenth time what a woman like Regina Mills would ever see in the likes of him?
"I'm actually doing this, Marian," he breathed, rubbing restless hands together as he chuckled at himself. "Wish me luck."
The sound of the doorbell made him nearly jump out of his shoes.
He hurried back into the living room, feeling a weight fall from his chest as Marco entered carrying two aluminum trays and a brown paper bag.
"Dinner for two," the older man announced, making his way to the small dining room table where he commenced to set out a spread. "Augusto—bring me some dishes so this looks like Robin's doing and not mine."
August complied immediately as Marco handed Robin a bottle of Merlot.
"Open it now," Marco instructed, his expression brokering no disagreement. "Let it breath."
He moved back into the kitchen, wine bottle in hand, and quickly pulled out the corkscrew from its drawer. He uncorked it with a small pop and left it on the counter as he reached up for two wine glasses.
"It's still smoky in here," Roland stated, waving his arm in front of his face. "My eyes hurt, Daddy."
"I know," Robin replied, handing Marco the wine glasses to add to the table setting. "It will get better Roland. I promise."
More ironic words could have never been spoken. If he'd only known how much worse everything was about to get.
Roland rubbed his eyes as he continued to walk through the kitchen, relying on feel and memory to get him from one place to the next.
"Roland," Robin barked unexpectedly. "Watch out!"
But he could only stare in horror as his son ran directly into the kitchen counter, falling down on his bottom as the wine followed him to the floor. The bottle shattered on tile, glass and merlot flying across the room with ninety-five percent of the liquid landing right on Robin's pants and shirt.
Roland blinked open his eyes, afraid to move, afraid to look at his dad, afraid to do anything but wail at the top of his lungs.
"Roland!" Robin yelled. "Are you alright?"
August scooped him up before the boy could accidently cut himself on the glass and set him on the living room carpet. He examined him quickly, looking back at Robin with a relieved expression.
"He's fine," August breathed, and Robin let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Not even a scratch that I can find."
"Thank God," Robin muttered, watching as Marco crossed himself and whispered up a prayer of gratitude. He then grabbed a broom and dustpan, dealing with the broken glass before bothering to mop up the wine.
"Go change again, Robin," August barked as he took the broom from his hands and gestured towards Robin's pants. "It's not a pretty sight." Robin actually looked down at himself then, his insides twisting into some sort of demented maze as he surveyed the damage. He was soaked in a what would have been a rather nice merlot, smelling more like a vineyard than the Bvlgari he'd applied just minutes earlier.
Shit. Just shit. And it was far too late to text Regina and tell her he was running behind.
He untucked and unbuttoned his shirt, throwing it down to the kitchen floor in frustration as he unbuckled and unzipped his slacks. Just then a deafening noise bleated out, making all of them cover their ears as he stared back at his wall in sheer anger.
"Now?" Robin cried out in anger. "You go off now? Twenty minutes after we needed you?"
He kicked off his pants and began to pound the fire alarm with his fist, determined to beat it into submission before he lost his fucking mind. The bleating finally stopped, but his heart continued to race, and he sucked in one breath after another, just before the final nail was driven into his coffin.
"Daddy, Daddy!" Roland called out in excitement from somewhere behind Robin's back. "Daddy—look. Look who's here!"
He didn't have to look. He knew. Was it possible for him to simply dissolve into the vents and evaporate into thin air?
He tried to muster what small shreds of self-respect he had remaining and forced himself to turn around, standing the middle of his kitchen wearing nothing but his boxers, a tank top, socks and a forced smile.
"Hello, Regina," he managed, wondering how the hell he managed to sound so bloody normal. Her mouth was twitching, her eyes were nearly bugged out of her head, but she somehow managed to hold her own and keep her laughter in check.
"Hello, Robin," she returned, unable to contain her grin any longer, making him feel about three feet tall as August nearly doubled-over and cackled out loud from the other room.
Thoughts, anyone?