"I still see her, you know? Like in the corner of my eyes, little flashes," he pauses to tip his pint slightly, staring down into the sudsy dregs at the bottom of the glass. "I'll see her as I turn, but then she's just gone."
The other man at the bar just hmms in agreement, staring into his own lager. He knows his companion isn't finished so he just waits. He sips his beer and stares straight ahead, allowing the illusion of privacy, as if looking over would be an invasion in what is already a deeply intimate conversation.
"She should be the one doing this. She should be the one to buy me my first legal drink. Not that I don't appreciate you doing it, or everything else you've done, it's just..."
The words stop and Robin looks over, sees the barely held back tears shining in Henry's eyes as the boy, the man, sitting next to him gulps down what's left of his lukewarm beer around the lump in his throat.
"I know, Henry. I know," Robin mutters, clapping the boy on the shoulder and signalling for the bartender to pour them another round while he pretends not to see Henry wiping his eyes with the end of his sleeve.
The barman walks over setting their fresh pints in front of them, but before he can collect their empty glasses and head back down the bar Henry stops him. "Wait, do you have Dalwhinnie?
"A 15 and an 18 year," the bartender says.
"We'll take two of the 15, straight, please." Henry says, with a confidence and maturity that has Robin shaking his head with a smile. He can't believe the boy is 21 already; if only Regina could see it too.
The bartender nods and goes to retrieve their second set of drinks, returning a moment later and setting them next to their pints. Robin picks one up, rolling his wrist just enough to send the amber liquid swirling around in the glass. The smell of smoke and peat with just a hint of caramel softness hits him and he breathes in a dagger of memory that stings of Regina even after all this time.
"This was your mother's favorite," Robin muses after he's blinked away the fog of grief.
"I know," Henry replies, raising his own glass and clinking it against Robin's. "To Mom."
"To your mother," Robin replies, tipping his glass in a matching toast before knocking it back.
The taste floats around his mouth and he finds himself stalling on taking a sip of his beer; he wants the flavor to linger just a moment longer, for the ghost of whiskey kisses and summer smiles to rest on his lips before he washes it away with the bitterness of hops and the years that have come and gone since he last drank with her.
This time it's Henry who wraps his hand around Robin's shoulder, giving him the standard double tap and release with a knowing smile. "Thanks, Robin. For everything."