Robin is right.

They come in the dead of the night, just as Robin frantically shakes him awake. About four of them. He is released, rubbing his wrists, bleary-eyed and confused, and thrown in the middle of the gang, his wounds and bruises still fresh. There is nothing he can do. Hands grapple him down. Screaming in his ears. They're coming from everywhere, and he can't fight it, and all he hears is her.

'Stop it! This is ridiculous, stop it, this is insane, they'll come for you, you know—'

As much as he tries to listen to her voice, his mind loses focus. He is whirling around. He faintly smells cigarettes and sweat, as he grasps the clothes of the men beating him and falls, hands up trying to cover his face.

Again and again.

He's earned a lifetime of slaps, he thinks. The universe is finally giving him what he deserves—for breaking hundreds of random women's hearts, and Robin's.

'What does it feel like?' one of them demands. It's a new voice. 'Huh, Stinson? Being helpless. Tell me! What does it feel like?'

A hard fist collides with his gut. He chokes.

'Answer me!'

'It feels awful!'

'It's not enough.'

With what's left of his vision, he manages to see a blade, drawn out from one of the pockets. A clean, shining knife. A hand waves it around, and his stomach churns as he waits for the inevitable—will it be his head, his gut? His chest? He has never been more acutely aware of his own body.

But all he feels is a slice of air across his arm. Then, two. It doesn't hurt for awhile.

He touches the familiar liquid, warm, and in the dark it's hard to tell the color. They laugh. A pair of strong hands pick him up and throw him against a wall, and he crashes against the wood. He's choking, hands around his neck like snakes. The man sneers.

'You can't do this to us! Stop it. Leave him! Please, stop it now—'

And for some reason, they follow. He waits to be dragged back into the chaos, to be beaten up, to be hit, to be yelled at. But he just sits there, cold, still reeling, drained.

That's when he realizes they've turned to her.

(And why wouldn't they? Why didn't he see this coming? She's gorgeous.)

She screams—he'll never forget the way it sounds. They unbutton her shirt and touch her. She struggles, but they hit her too. Fuck them. Rage fills him up. They don't have any right to touch her. They don't have any right to even look at her.

'It's been long since I've done this,' he hears one of them snicker.

'Hey! Let me have a go at her.'

'Shut up, Krawstowski, she clearly prefers me.'

'Fuck off.'

'I will.'

'Let her go,' he mumbles incoherently. His mind is in a slur. 'Let her go! Hit me. Whatever you want. Hit me! Can't you hear me? Stop touching her!'

They don't hear his pathetic cries, he thinks. She screams again. They laugh.

He wishes he can do something, really, anything, but he can't move, he can't even utter a word, they're touching her, he has to get up, his legs feel like spaghetti—

'Stop.'

The calm voice comes from the shadows. Walter's.

The men drop everything, they drop her.

'That's enough fun for tonight. No need to cuff them.'

'Boss!'

'Get out, boys.'

He listens until they do leave, mumbling under their breaths. It is the first time he's ever felt that much gratitude and relief. He must be delirious from loss of blood.

'Are you okay?' he wills himself to say, although he himself is shaking. Stupid question. He fights the sting, panting.

'I'm fine. You?'

'This? It's nothing.'

They lie. It's what they do.

XXX

Nobody disturbs them. They are left alone, supplied with nothing except their illegal basics, and what a way to torture two people, he thinks. In the morning, the heat is suffocating. At night, the cold is unbearable. For him, at least. Robin is Canadian, built with thick skin.

Still. Everything is eating away at him.

He aches for his bed and pillow, having thrown hers away when they broke up. He misses calling his mom every night just to say hello, hearing her daily reminders, being spoiled like that. He imagines taking a nice, long bath. An ironed and pressed suit. Sleep and food fit for humans. His friends. Everything he'd taken for granted has much more meaning now, and everything he'd prized about himself means nothing.

And Robin? She won't even talk to him.

XXX

The words stop rolling.

She doesn't know what to say, after what had happened. And she's still unsure of what she feels. They didn't even go all the way. Yet, for some reason, she feels ashamed, disgusted, shaky. Her lips tremble when she tries to tell him about it.

She can tell, despite being so completely lost in herself, that he's hurt pretty bad. He sits in only one position, as if it hurts to move. He doesn't hum his usual songs, crack inappropriate jokes or yell obscenities at their guards. His arm lays limp, his shirt soiled in blood. He won't tell her, of course.

To them, whatever isn't acknowledged can't be true.

She hurls a bottle of alcohol at him. Out of anger, out of concern. He picks it up with his good arm and looks at her, taking his sleeve of. He grimaces.

XXX

The world right now boils down to three things. him, Robin, and survival. He has to shun out everything else. Today alone, he's already fallen asleep a dozen many times, each time waking up terrified that they might take her away.

It's still pretty ugly, his wound. He stares at his own arm. Like it's all a dream, a nightmare, something he'll never fully believe.

'I'm hungry,' he says. His throat feels dry, words foreign through his lips. He wants her to eat. But all she does is toss him a cheese stick and a bottle of water. 'Are you?'

"Nope. Hide the wrapper when you're done.'

'You have to take something.'

'No, I don't.'

'Water. I mean, a sip would be good, right?'

'I can take care of myself, Barney.' There's an edge to her voice. He knows when to drop it.

He watches her stare out the window, where they can watch the fading lights. What does she miss, he wonders. Who is she thinking about—her dad, an ex, maybe? And does she think as much of him as he does of her.

Probably not.

XXX

'What would you differently?' she asks him. It's been running through her mind all day.

'What?' He just seems stunned that she would speak, to him, now.

'Knowing that we could be here forever, what would you differently?'

He pauses. 'My dad.'

'Me too.' She thinks of her gun-toting, scotch-drinking, tough-love advocate of a father in Canada. How they haven't spoken in years. And Barney—well, he never knew his. Maybe that's what makes them click together. Their father issues.

'I'm not stupid. I know it's not Bob Barker.'

'I'm sorry,' she says, because she doesn't know what to say, because in the course of their relationship they had veered away from touchy topics, scared to put everything in one pot. They didn't trust each other enough.

'But that's not the only thing. You know it's not, Robin.'

She doesn't ask him what it is. She already knows.

Hey, hope you like the choppy style. I wanted to show how fragmented their lives had become. Also, this chapter is a bit more serious? Well, to me. Please review. I worked long on this for you guys:)

A handful of reviews will do for the next chapter. Like, maybe 5 or 6. Just need to know what you think so I can improve on every chapter, every line. Thanks!