It's been five days.
Five miserable days since she ran out of his house in a panic. Five lonely days of ignored texts, unanswered calls, and of him wondering just what the hell happened after he left his bedroom and walked into the kitchen.
.
One minute, they'd been kissing and touching, smiling and discussing what he should fix for breakfast-the next…
The next minute she'd shot out his front door like a frightened hare, her face wet from tears she tried to hide from him, her legs as unsteady as her voice. What in God's name had terrified her so badly? What the hell had he done wrong?
He touched his lips, remembering the taste of her, the feel of her, how warm she felt pressed into his body, how perfectly she fit him in more ways than one. He ached all over, longed for a glimpse of that smile that had dazzled him from the moment he'd laid eyes on her in his restaurant, craved her laughter that tickled his insides, missed her touch that left him burning, remembered her scent that drove him wild.
Regina. Christ, he just missed her.
She'd left him a bruised and battered man living in a fog of his own creation, a fog he had to shake in order to get back to living. He'd had a life before her, after all, one that wasn't so bad, actually, one filled with family, friends and a son who brightened his entire world. One regulated by schedules, salaries, and late night poker over a few beers, one that resulted nightly in his lying down in an empty bed, a bed that had once been warm because of Marian's presence in it.
A bed now colder than ever because of Regina's absence.
This was ridiculous-no, he was ridiculous. He had to forget her, this woman who rearranged his heart before he'd even realized she'd set up residence. Forgetting her shouldn't be that difficult, actually, not when she'd waltzed into his life and nearly broken his nose a mere week ago, all five feet and three inches of her. But she'd somehow worked her way into his psyche and under his skin, and she refused to leave him alone, even when she wouldn't acknowledge his calls.
The problem seemed to be his and his alone.
But she'd laughed at his stupid jokes, had been brave enough to stay the night after he'd ruined their dinner and presented himself to her in his boxers and socks. She'd let him talk about Marian, had held his hand when he spoke of her death, had listened to story after story about her Lupus and Roland's birth before sharing her own about adopting Henry. They'd compared notes about raising boys, being single parents, about trying to balance work and family, about dealing with guilt when personal needs arose at massively inconvenient times.
He'd told her there had been no one since Marian, that no one had even caught his eye since her death. She admitted that it had been years since she'd had sex, that she kept a vibrator hidden in her nightstand drawer and that she lived in semi-fear that Henry would happen upon it one day. He'd kissed her in a way he wouldn't have believed possible for him again, and she'd kissed him back with the same fervor, one he'd savored and devoured, one he now replayed over and over again in his mind.
She'd let him see her naked, had allowed him to kiss the scar she found so daunting, the same scar he found beautiful because it meant she lived. He'd touched it, tasted it, had memorized it's texture as his breath painted assurances over exposed skin.
He'd thought they were on the verge of something special. But she obviously felt differently. Why else would she leave him high and dry without an explanation, a text, or even a note for five days? But that explanation didn't make sense, either, not after the night they'd shared. No something was off, something he was missing, something that should probably be glaringly obvious and would probably bite him in the end.
Shit. Just shit.
He didn't love her, that wasn't possible, not after a mere two dates and one night together, no matter how mind-blowingly incredible the sex had been. He didn't think she'd faked anything, hoped to God he hadn't somehow inadvertently hurt her. She'd cried her release into his mouth, his shoulder, his neck, had cinched and fluttered around both his fingers and his cock.
But it had been more than sex for him, and he'd thought it had been the same for her. She'd told him as much as they'd lain wrapped up in each other, naked and sated and so very tired. She'd shown him as much over and over again, through touches, smiles, caresses and whispered confessions that felt every bit as intimate to him as being inside her body. He may not love her, but he was in the process of falling, and damn it, it was next to impossible to stop mid-air and reverse the laws of gravity.
But he had to, it would seem. She'd made that choice for him after he'd already stepped off of the cliff.
"Daddy. I don't feel good."
He set down his reheated coffee, this morning's leftover brew he'd microwaved to ward off a simmering headache still bitter on his tongue. It was his night off from the restaurant. God, he was supposed to have been cooking dinner for Roland and himself while he'd been staring at his silent phone, brooding over a woman who'd written him off. But one look at his son's face let him know that dinner probably wasn't going to happen tonight.
His boy was pale, his cheeks flushed a bright magenta.
He moved to Roland and laid a warm palm on his son's forehead. Christ, he was burning up. He pulled Roland to his chest and scooped him up gently, somewhat alarmed at how limp the boy felt in his arms as he moved to the medicine cabinet and took out the Children's Ibuprofen.
"Here, Roland," he murmured, sitting his son down on the toilet seat, popping open the lid and pouring the red liquid into a plastic measuring cup. "Drink this."
Roland grimaced as he swallowed.
"It hurts," he muttered, pointing to his neck. "My throat. And my arms."
Robin ran some water into a small glass and brought it to Roland's mouth.
"This will help," he assured him, stroking curls that seemed droopier than usual. Roland drank without protest, his face scrunching as the liquid made it's way down his throat. He raised his arms up towards his father, and Robin picked him up again, glancing at his watch, noting that it was already a little after 6:00 pm. That eliminated calling his pediatrician, he realized, wondering then if Roland's temperature would warrant a trip to the emergency room.
He grabbed the thermometer and gently nuzzled it into Roland's ear, growing more concerned as it took longer than usual for the device to beep. 102.3. Yes-it was definitely time for a trip to the ER.
He bundled Roland up in his heaviest coat, grabbing his Captain America blanket for good measure as he carried him to the car, cursing himself for not warming up his vehicle ahead of time as winter cold stung his cheeks. But Roland didn't seem to mind, his eyes drooping to half-mast as Robin buckled him into his car seat and tucked the blanket in around him. How had this happened so quickly, he wondered? Roland had been unusually tired this afternoon, had refused his regular after school snack, had actually fallen asleep while watching Peppa Pig, but he hadn't been hot when Robin picked him up from preschool. Robin had assumed the boy had just had an overly busy day, but he should have paid more attention, should have checked him when he'd refused his snack, should have quizzed about his symptoms before this fever had spiked.
Shit. He hoped it wasn't the flu.
But it was making the rounds among both students and teachers at Highlands Montessori, as was strep and the dreaded stomach bug, and he breathed a word of thanks that at least Roland wasn't vomiting. Adding that to his high fever would be adding insult to injury.
Snow flurries grew into decent-sized flakes as he drove, but the roads remained clear as he made his way to the nearest hospital and parked as close as he could to the ER entrance.
Roland didn't protest as Robin scooped him out of his seat, his head falling onto his father's shoulder as one small hand patted his father's back.
"Cold," Roland uttered, prompting Robin to walk even faster towards the door.
"Yes," Robin said, rubbing his son's back through the blanket. "But we'll be inside in a second, and it will be nice and toasty in there."
It wasn't as toasty as he'd hoped, but it would have to do, he observed as they made their way to the front desk. Shit-it was packed in here tonight. God only knew how long it would be before it would be their turn. He carried the clipboard with the necessary forms in one hand while balancing Roland in the other, sitting down clumsily as far away as he could from any other sick person in the waiting room, a difficult task when practically every seat was taken.
"Want me to take that up to the desk for you?"
A young woman in Cookie Monster scrubs with brown hair and a nametag that identified her as Belle: RN Pediatrics stood in front of him, her hand extended towards the clipboard. He smiled, nodding as Roland snuggled further into his chest and groaned.
"Looks like your hands are full enough," Belle observed, leaning in to feel Roland's forehead. "How long has he had this fever?"
"Just a few hours," Robin answered. "It hit him out of nowhere."
She nodded, looking over the boy's chart.
"Sounds like flu," Belle said with a sigh. "We're seeing a lot of it this week. I'll try to get you two back to get checked as quickly as I can. The ER is so swamped tonight with the multi-car pile-up on Storrow Drive added to cold and flu season that they've called in extra help, including me. We have a make-shift peds area set up with two extra pediatricians on hand so the babies and children won't have to wait too long."
He closed his eyes, swallowing hard.
"Thank you," he muttered, kissing Roland's curls after tugging off his toboggan. "I appreciate it more than you know."
Belle smiled and carried his chart up to the registration desk, speaking with the woman in charge a few moments, giving her instructions. Robin slid down into the chair, trying to get as comfortable as possible as he adjusted Roland in his lap until the boy's head lay flat against his chest. Even with extra hands on deck in pediatrics, there was still no telling how long they would have to wait, and he felt his own eyes start to droop as CNN played softly in the background and various people coughed and hacked around them.
"Locksley."
The voice shook him out of his stupor, and he stood, locating a young man with closely shaved black hair and round glasses holding his chart and motioning him towards a door.
"I'm Carlos," the nurse stated, leading them back through a maze of hallways and equipment. A man either in extreme pain or high as a kite was yelling obscenities in the background, but Roland didn't even stir, a fact for which Robin was both thankful and alarmed. "We'll get you two settled and I'll check his temperature."
They made their way through curtains into a small, rectangular space which held a chair, a bed on wheels, and an assortment of medical equipment that left Robin cold inside. He'd seen too many rooms like this during his marriage, especially during Marian's pregnancy and right after Roland's birth, and he swallowed down bile, forcing himself to focus on Roland and only Roland as Carlos checked the boy's temperature.
"101.6," Carlos stated. "Did you give him any medicine before you came?"
"Children's Ibuprofen," Robin answered. "It was 102.3 earlier, so it has gone down somewhat."
Carlos nodded as he scribbled something on the chart.
"I'm going to check him for strep and flu," he stated. "So I'll need you to hold him still, if you don't mind."
"Of course not," Robin uttered, adjusting Roland so he faced the nurse and leaned back against his torso. The boy nearly gagged on the throat swab and tried to hide his face when Carlos leaned in to swab his nose for the flu test, but they got it done without too much difficulty.
"The strep test takes 5-10 minutes to produce a result, the flu test about 15-20," Carlos explained. "After we have the results from both, Dr. Mills would be in to see you."
He nearly shot out of his seat at that.
"Dr. Mills?" Robin asked, his voice rising in pitch as his tongue doubled in size.
"Trust me," Carlos stated as he pulled back the curtain. "You're in good hands. She's one of the best."
Dr. Mills...a pediatrician…and a female pediatrician, at that. It could be a coincidence, but his heart pounded all the same, robbing his mouth of moisture as his mind scattered in one hundred directions at once. Roland snuggled back into his chest, asleep within seconds, and Robin was glad for it as he stroked the boy's hair, his heart in tatters as Marian's memory, Roland's illness and Regina's proximity turned him into a sodding mess.
Twenty minutes seemed like a bloody eternity.
He finally heard a shuffling from behind the curtain, and he watched as a delicate hand drew it aside, only to find himself staring at the very woman who had haunted his every waking and sleeping moment for the past five days staring at him with wide, tired eyes.
"Robin," she muttered, moving into the small cubical, looking down at Roland in concern. She seemed surprised, but not startled, and he knew that his son's chart had given her a few seconds to compose herself before facing him. How in God's name would they have handled things if neither of them had been given any warning?
"So you're alive," he said, hating his words as soon as they left his mouth. She had the decency to look sheepish, but she composed herself quickly, forcing herself to meet his gaze head-on.
"Yes," she returned. "I'm alive." The air was thick, his every nerve on high alert as he watched her look back down at Roland's chart and clear her throat. "Roland's flu test was positive."
Just like that, they'd changed course. He was actually glad for it.
"Did he get a flu shot this fall?" she asked, and Robin nodded, trying to get his train of thought moving in one direction rather than twelve. "Good. That means he should recover quicker than he would have without one." Her words continued, something about Tamiflu being a possibility but not really one she would recommend as Henry had a reaction to it last year, about lots of fluids and rest, and would he be able to get his family to cover for him at the restaurant while he looked after Roland?
"I owe you an apology," she then stated, catching him off guard, her voice far calmer than he felt. His insides churned, and everything hit him at once...Marian's death, his night with Regina, their love making, her running out the door, Roland having the flu….
"Yes," he said. "You do. An explanation would be lovely, too."
She looked hurt, truly hurt, and he hated himself for making her look that way.
"It wasn't you," she began, her tone barely above a whisper. "You did nothing wrong, it was…"
"It was what?" he cut in, impatience and pain prompting him forward. "Is this where you tell me it was all you and that I shouldn't feel bad about it? Because I do feel badly about it, Regina. I feel like shit, to be honest."
She closed her eyes, swallowing hard before looking back at him.
"I'm sorry," she breathed. "I never meant to hurt you. And if it makes you feel any better, I feel like shit, too."
A bitter laugh forced itself out, leaving a sour taste in his mouth.
"Then why did you run away? Why do this to both of us?" He stood, holding Roland to his chest, staring at her directly, willing her to tell him the truth. But her eyes fell to the chart, her cheeks heating as her breath hitched.
"It's complicated," she finally said, her hands shaking slightly. She looked so small and vulnerable then, and his heart squeezed until it hurt, until every part of him wanted to yell, to throw up his hands and run out in the cold until he was past the point of feeling.
"Then tell me," he practically begged. "I'm a fairly intelligent man, Regina. Complicated stories are usually something I can manage to comprehend."
"This isn't the time or place," she cut in, taking a step in his direction. "I have patients to see, and you need to get your son home and into bed."
His chest deflated at that, and he felt like the worst dad in the world for allowing his heartache over a woman he'd known a week interfere with his concern for his son. She seemed to sense this, God, she sensed too much about him, and she handed him a paper with instructions he couldn't quite make out at the moment.
"He's going to be fine," she assured him, her tone more personal than professional. "Regular fluids are the key. Pedialyte and Gatorade would be good to have on hand because he's likely to have little to no appetite for a few days. If he won't drink, give him popsicles. I used to have to do that with Henry." She smiled softly, her gaze moving to the dark curls splayed over his shoulder.
"So no Italian Cream Cake."
His own words surprised him, as did the small smile that danced across her features as she stroked Roland's hair.
"If he feels good enough to ask for Italian Cream Cake, give it to him," she instructed. "Nonno and Marco's cooking might do wonders for him, especially if they can whip up a nice, healthy broth."
"You know those two," he muttered, unable to keep from smiling himself. "They'll deliver it by hand if it's for Roland."
"Yes," she breathed, looking up at him, seeing into him one glorious second before the mask of the physician slid back into place. "They would."
He knew the moment was gone, and he missed it already, that one brief moment of emotional intimacy enough to let him know that something was off here, terribly, terribly off. If only she'd let him know what the hell it was.
"Alternate Tylenol with Motrin every four hours until his fever breaks, but know that it's likely to continue to come back for several days. If his fever goes higher than 103, becomes unresponsive to medication or his symptoms linger for longer than five days, take him to his regular pediatrician to get him checked again." She paused once more, avoiding his eyes, weighing something carefully in her mind before she swallowed hard and met his gaze. "Or call me. I'm happy to check up on him any time."
His lips pressed together as he nodded, words pressing through dry lips before he could call them back.
"So you'll take my calls now?"
"Robin…"
His name feathered over her lips, lips he wanted to kiss even as he wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake the truth out of her.
"Sorry," he uttered. "That was unfair."
He moved towards the curtain, preparing to take his leave when she reached out to touch his sleeve.
"No," she stated, her tone low and private. "It wasn't." Emotions he couldn't identify rolled over her features, but he was able to discern turmoil. It was palpable between them. "I'll take your calls and your texts," she continued. "I'm sorry for not answering them this week. It's just...things have been...things are…"
"Complicated. I get it."
They were standing close now, so close he could smell the sweet, floral scent of her hair mixed in with the strong odor of disinfectant. Her eyes were dark, her lips practically free of lipstick, and he saw then that she'd had a long, probably sleepless tenure here what with her taking on ER duties on top of her regular office hours and patients to help sick children. He wanted to comfort her, of all things, wanted to hold her to his chest, to kiss her forehead, to tell her that they'd work out whatever she thought was so tricky that it prompted her to run out the front door. But it stung, the rejection she'd served him up on a cold platter, so he stepped back instead, wondering if he'd actually call or text her, knowing he probably would because he was just that pathetic, wondering if she'd ever tell him the truth about what had scared her so badly.
Because she was scared of something between them. That much was obvious.
"Goodbye, Regina."
The words tasted bland on his tongue as his insides shut down, and he watched her flinch before her eyes fell and she nodded, accepting what she obviously interpreted as rejection in a manner that seemed practiced and well-used. She shouldn't get to him like this, shouldn't matter this much, but as he turned and walked out of the hospital, she was still with him in his head, in his heart, and he cursed once he had Roland buckled in securely, turning on the heat before slamming his hands against the steering wheel until his hands stung.
He couldn't know that she'd slid into the bathroom after he left and locked the door, that she'd cried as she hadn't cried in months, that she was cursing herself with the same ferocity as he just had, that her heart now lay in tatters around her feet but that she was too frightened to pick it up. He couldn't know that she went through the rest of the night as a robot, her emotions trailing behind her like a slip whose elasticity had broken, her scar throbbing even though it could generate no pain. He had no idea that his name was what she whispered when she finally fell into bed at 2:00 a.m., pulling the covers up to her chin and tracing the very scar that now stood between them.
He couldn't know that they both thought of Marian and each other as they finally fell asleep. He couldn't know how badly she wanted to let herself fully trust him, fully love him, how she wanted to tell him everything yet feared his reaction too much. He couldn't know that she replayed their encounter over and over again in her mind as the minutes ticked by, wishing she'd handled it differently, wondering just what he thought of her now, knowing she'd probably never hear from him again, crying over the fact even though she thought it was for the best.
He only feared she'd just stepped out of his life forever, cursing himself and this bloody insomnia as the night's events held him hostage, knowing deep down that he'd never be able to get over what could have been.
Something was terribly wrong with his mom.
Henry knew that she'd worked longer hours than usual last night, which was disturbing in itself as hard as she worked anyway. That's why she'd let him spend the night with Aunt Mary Margaret and Uncle Dave, because she knew how late she'd be and wanted to make certain he got a good night's sleep. But she'd been upset by something earlier in the week, something he was sure had to do with Robin, the guy in the restaurant she'd liked, the one he'd known had liked her, too. She'd been a nervous wreck before their date, but she'd been a bigger wreck after it was over, and that wasn't okay with Henry, not one little bit.
If Robin had hurt his mom, he wanted to let the guy have it.
He'd asked her several times what had happened, but all she'd say was that Robin was nice, but that they just weren't meant to be. She was a terrible liar, even though she thought she was really good at it, and Henry knew there was a lot more to it that she was letting on. Besides, if Robin was such a nice guy, how could she know that they weren't meant to be so quickly?
"She is acting weird," Mary Margaret had stated. "I agree with Henry, David. Something had to have happened with Robin."
"Okay," David had returned. "Let's say that something happened between them. It's still none of our business. If Regina doesn't want to talk about her love life, she shouldn't have to."
"Mom doesn't have a love life," Henry said. "You know that. This is the first date she's had since her surgery."
"And she needs to talk about it, David," Mary Margaret argued, patting Henry on the hand as he ate his bologna and cheese sandwich. "You know how Regina tends to keep things all bottled up inside of her until they eat her alive. A little nudging from her friends can't hurt."
"Yes," David returned. "It can. We should stay out of this, Mary Margaret." He paused, looking directly at Henry and pointing a finger in his direction. "And so should you."
Mary Margaret said nothing else, but she'd shot Henry a look that let him know that she had no intention of dropping it. Good. He had an ally.
The two of them were now alone together at his house, chatting as Mary Margaret was slicing vegetables for a salad that would accompany the spaghetti that was boiling on the stove.
"Do you think she'll work as late tonight as she did last night?" Henry asked. Mary Margaret sighed, turning to look at him from her position by the kitchen counter.
"Who knows?" she returned. "Regina told me that last night she didn't get home until 1:30. Let's hope there are no more multi-car pile ups and that she can make it earlier tonight."
He nodded, tapping his fingers on the counter.
"I think something happened last night, too, you know. Something personal."
Mary Margaret paused, her eyes narrowing.
"You mean with Robin?" she asked. "Why do you think that? It could have just been a rough night with patients, Henry."
"Aunt Mary Margaret, I know my mom," Henry replied. "Something besides work was bothering her this morning, something she wouldn't talk about, and that makes me think it has to be about Robin."
He'd seen it in the way her shoulders drooped, in the way her eyes looked almost dead, had heard it in the flat tone of her voice. She'd had her hopes dashed, something she'd gotten used to as they'd waited and waited for a suitable heart to become available for her, and he couldn't let his mom go there again. She'd been a dark, lonely place for too long.
The only person he'd seen lately who'd raised her hopes as far as they'd been raised earlier this week was Mr. Robin Locksley. Therefore, he had to have been the one who'd dashed them onto the ground.
"Crap," Mary Margaret muttered, raising her index finger to her mouth. "I cut myself. Where are the Band-Aids?"
"There are some in mom's bathroom," Henry answered, already halfway up the stairs as he yelled back his answer. "I'll bring them down."
He pushed open his mom's bedroom door, shaking his head at the clothes that had piled up in the corner. She hadn't left messes untended like this since right after her surgery. This wasn't a good sign. She'd come so far-they'd come so far, and he couldn't stand the thought of her drifting back into depression. He sighed as he walked towards the stack of dirty clothes, intending to put them in the hamper before he grabbed the box of Band-Aids. A paper fell out of a pocket, and he stared at it as he dropped the clothes, picking up the paper, his breath catching when he realized what it was.
It was a letter. His letter. The one he'd written two years ago and sent to the family of the person whose heart his mother now had.
Why did his mom have it? How did she have it? He'd never even told her that he'd written it, had relied upon Mary Margaret to help him get it mailed so as not to upset his mom any further. There was no way she should have it, it had been mailed years ago, unless the family hadn't wanted it and had returned it, somehow, unless she'd met the family and had figured things out, unless...
Wait. Robin. Robin!
His wife had died...wasn't it two years ago? Wasn't that what his mom had told him? Hadn't she revealed that the woman had been an organ donor, Robin's late wife, because Henry had then stated that that was a quite a coincidence, that Robin's family had helped someone just like someone had helped the two of them?
His eyes flew open as the truth hit him like a bolt of lightning.
"Aunt Mary Margaret!" he yelled. "I know! I know what happened!"
He dashed down the steps, the Band-Aids forgotten, stopping dead just in front of his very startled looking godmother.
"What's this?" she asked, plucking the paper from his fingers, her eyes widening as she took in the truth.
"It's my letter!" he replied. "The letter you helped me write. It was upstairs in mom's pants' pocket."
"But how?" she muttered, confusion still clouding what he'd already put together. "How did she…"
"Don't you see?" Henry asked. "She must have found it at Robin's house after their date, which would mean…"
"Oh my God," Mary Margaret breathed, her eyes doubling in diameter. "His wife. Regina's heart once belonged to Robin's dead wife!"
"Exactly!" Henry cried, jumping up in his excitement as Mary Margaret's hand rested on her slightly rounded stomach. "That's why she's been so upset. That's why she won't talk about what's been bothering her, because she thinks it's her fault. She always thinks it's her fault."
"Even when she's done nothing wrong," Mary Margaret uttered, dashing over to the oven and turning off the burner. "Come on, Henry. Get your coat."
His heart sped up in his chest.
"Where are we going?" he asked as he slid on his navy beanie. Mary Margaret turned to face him, a determination he knew well enough to respect staring back at him through greener than green eyes.
"To L & M's Pub and Trattoria," she replied, scooping up both her car keys and her purse. "We need to find out if our theory is right, and to do that, we need to go straight to the source."
"And if it is?" Henry questioned, his brows slanting upward as they walked out the front door and down the front steps.
"Well," Mary Margaret smiled, her focus narrowing as they reached her car. "Then we're going to give your mom and Robin a good, hard nudge in the right direction, whether either of them or David wants us to or not."