Hello all. It's been a while. I still haven't logged back on to tumblr, and I have to say I'm not entirely sure I ever will. I don't think I realized how poisonous that environment was to me until I left it for a while. That doesn't mean I didn't find wonderful people or enjoy it, it's just that it was causing me more anxiety and frustration and general anguish than any hobby needs to in life.
Anyway, I started working on this last fall, and I really do want to go back and at least finish the things I'd gotten so far on. I think this fandom created far better stories throughout than the writers ever did, and I don't want to let them take this away from me. Besides which, I missed these guys a lot these past few months, and I missed all of you. We'll see how more things go, as life is pretty busy right now, and I waver on different days about wanting to write again. But I hope I'll be able to, at the very least, finish the things I'd started. Maybe I'll even be inspired to actually write Rift. For now, if you want to reach me, messaging me on fanfiction dot net is probably best, and as always I'd love to hear from you. Watching and following the show is over for me, as it has been for a long time, but I'm trying to feel that that doesn't mean the characters and stories I create have to be.
As it's been a while, I'll remind you that this belongs in Music-verse, and you can find the existing pieces in this verse both on a03 and fanfiction dot net. Basically: she's from a rich business family but became a violinist, he's a gardener, they were childhood friends, and now they've reconnected. Many thanks to ninzied for her brilliant work on this one, and for not letting me give upon this one.
Lots of love, always,
Emily
Present day
She's in one of her black dresses today, with tights and tall boots and her hair braided up against her head like she does when it's humid or rainy. He can tell even from this distance.
Normally, he'd sit near the front, on the left side of the audience, where he could best see her. But the tickets available at such short notice had apparently been more limited. He has ached with missing her already, but somehow, sitting as he is in the same hall as her, the ache strengthens.
She looks a little off today-is he imagining it? No; he can't be. She does. A little slow to lift her instrument, less focused on the music than she typically seems to be, more focused on her stand than the audience in between pieces.
Is she taking care of herself? He scowls at the thought. Of course she is. She's perfectly capable. But then, his experience tells him that when she's upset she's rarely good at tending to her own needs, and certainly this would be no different.
He's always liked Sunday matinees, the students and families and bright-eyed (or weary and bored) children brought by their parents. It makes for interesting people-watching at intermission, and they're playing some of his favorites tonight, including a Beethoven overture in the first half, and a beautiful cello concerto in the second, but it's almost as if it's not quite reaching his ears.
A few days earlier
"Charlotte Easton's twenty-first birthday ball is in a couple of weeks," Regina informs Robin as she drops a pile of bills on her desk, carrying with her to the kitchen the singular personal bit of mail-the cream cardstock, gold-embossed, very official-looking invitation. "Mother's been pestering me about it for weeks."
"Has she?" Robin lifts the sauté pan before him, spooning a generous serving of scrambled eggs onto each of their plates.
Regina scoffs as she sits at one of the stools opposite him. "I'm not going."
Robin lifts his eyes from the coffee he's pouring into mugs. "I thought you always liked Charlotte?" She's the daughter of a family friend, younger than him and Regina by several years, but by Robin's estimation mature for her age, and significantly more likable than the average Mills family acquaintance.
"I do," she agrees, her voice shifting to a less certain tone. "She's all right. But the thought of the party, and mother throwing me at the single, wealthy men as though I were wearing a corset and Victoria and Albert were Queen and King…" She shakes her head.
Robin smirks. "Fair enough. Although I imagine you would look stunning in a corset."
"Hm. Looks like you've given that one some thought," she teases, her soft laugh warming him to the core. She leans over the counter to kiss the corner of his lips, and relieves him of one of the steaming mugs in the process. "Now, I need coffee before I fall back asleep."
He grins. "Night owl."
"I'm a musician!"
"Mhm." He spoons beans onto each of their plates over freshly made toast.
"And someone kept me up rather late last night," she adds.
"Did they?" he teases, coming round the counter to join her, their hot brunch plates in hand. "I wonder who that could've been?"
Their food and Regina's coffee go forgotten for a few moments as he bends to steal a kiss, another, one more, his hands burrowing into the slightly rumpled waves of her hair, hers creeping up his back and around his shoulders.
"It was quite lovely," he tells her with a contented sigh when they separate, "last night I mean."
"Mm," she hums in acknowledgement, finally detaching her hands to shake pepper over her eggs and pick up her fork.
"I like waking up here, with you. Cooking you breakfast."
"Robin," she sighs, setting her fork back on her plate and turning to face him with a piercing gaze that is at once fond and exasperated.
He bites his lip a touch ruefully. He probably could've eased into that one with a bit more subtlety, he'll admit. Still, he presses on. "Move in with me?"
"I-" she hesitates, her eyes leaving his, depriving him of his best means of understanding her feelings on the matter. Yet when he takes one of her hands between his, she allows him to thread their fingers together.
"I'm here most of the time, Regina," he adds. "I sleep here at least four or five nights a week. I'm not even sure what's left in my closet at John's, other than the black trousers and blouse you keep there. And last week, John got-" he clears his throat teasingly, "-well, a bit of an eye-full when he got home early from work."
He hears her breathy chuckle, grinning himself at the memory.
"We've only been together for a year," she protests.
"We've been together since we were eight," he amends, his face relaxing when he sees her lips twitch into half a smile.
"With a slight interruption, I think," she adds, her smile fading as quickly as it had come. They don't talk about that interruption, the years when they did not speak to each other, did not even know where the other lived, or what they were doing. The photo albums of their childhood remain in the bottom of a closet drawer, and rarely, if ever, see sunlight. And when her thoughts drift to their past, as they often do, it causes a throb of anxiety, of fear, of regret. How, she always seems to wonder, can they make the decision to move closer together when they've never discussed the reasons they once moved apart?
'Regina," he sighs, "I love you. I want to be with you. And I want to live with you, properly. It doesn't have to be here. We could-I could convince John to move out, and we could share my place, or we could find somewhere new when your lease is up in a couple of months, I just-"
"Robin, I'm not sure I'm comfortable..."
"With what?" he pushes on when she doesn't continue. "Spending nights together? Having my things here? Sharing a space? We already do all of those things, most of the time."
"I know. I know we do." She squeezes his hand reassuringly. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable with letting go of my own space," she finishes, her voice cracking and eyes drifting from his in a way that absolutely breaks his heart, the fear in it, the uncertainty. He clenches his fist against the sting of her words, her implication that she doesn't trust him, trying to remind himself that she does, really, that so many of the relationships in her life have been judgemental and conditional.
He leans closer, although he doesn't reach into her space just yet. "I wouldn't be asking if I didn't think we were ready for it."
There is a pause, a deep silence at the end of which her melting chocolate eyes finally turn to his, warming him to the core in a way that somehow still takes his breath away. "I'll think about it."
"Yeah?" He grins.
"Yes. I promise."
"Okay." He drops a kiss to her temple, satisfied, and turns back to his breakfast.
The next day
Regina is scowling before she's even stepped onto the street to return home.
The (broadly unliked) new maestro's brilliant idea today was to change half the program for a concert series that's opening next week and demand utter perfection in pieces they'd had no idea they'd be playing. All Regina wants out of her evening is to get home, out of this rain, to take off her dripping rain boots and damp jacket, and drink some hot tea. Maybe call Robin and have him pick up some takeaway.
Regina's thumb is millimetres away from tapping Robin's number when the shrill ringtone of an incoming call from Cora Mills interrupts her.
"Regina, dear."
"Hello, Mother," Regina answers, lifting her shoulder to pin the phone against her ear. She struggles against the weight and balance of her violin and umbrella, finally managing to plug in her headphones and drop the phone in her raincoat pocket. There. That's easier.
"How are you, dear?" Her mother asks.
"Fine," Regina replies. "A bit wet."
"Are you walking home in this weather? Oh, I wish you'd let me buy you that car."
"The tube is fine, Mother," Regina assures her, as she has a hundred times, "and it would be impossible to find or afford parking near my apartment."
"But you father and I could-"
"It's fine, Mother. Truly. I don't mind it."
"If you say so."
Regina allows the topic to lapse. "And, how are you, Mother?" she asks after a few moments of silence.
"Oh, all right, I suppose," she replies, in a plaintive tone whose insincerity Regina attempts to ignore. "Although the doctors say your father's going to be in the hospital until Friday now, dear, and I'll be all alone at home."
Well, aside from the servants of course, Regina adds for herself. Robin's father among them. But to Cora, of course, they're invisible.
"I don't know what I'll do with myself," she continues. "The house is dreadful when he's not here, and the dining room here is so large it gets very lonely. But you know, of course, that the Blanchards are visiting friends in New Zealand, and there are no other friends of ours to see."
Regina frowns as she comes to a stop at a busy intersection, reaching to adjust the strap of her violin case, and hopefully keep it at least partially out of the rain. "They originally said Thursday, didn't they, Mother? It's not so much worse."
"Regina, my dear, I don't understand why you always insist on making light of these things."
"I'm making light of things?" Regina asks, frustration creeping into her voice. She's not the one bemoaning a single night of eating dinner alone when it's someone else who's sick. If she's being honest with herself, she muses, trying to calm the jolt of panic she cannot help at her father's slowly worsening condition, she knew this kind of accusation was coming from the moment she answered the phone. It's not as though Mother's ever been known for her generosity and understanding. She's upset about Daddy, really, she tries to remind herself, taking a deep breath that would be more calming if the air weren't freezing cold and damp.
"I'm sorry, dear," Cora continues, though she doesn't sound terribly contrite, "you know I don't mean to accuse you. I merely wanted to speak with my little girl. Now, how are you? Still doing that short job with the symphony? Still seeing that young man...what was his name, Robert?"
"Robin," she replies, leaving the feigned ignorance of the name to one side. "Yes, I am. But the symphony isn't a short job, Mother. They've asked me to stay on more permanently." Regina turns left and continues down an old paved road covered in muddy rivulets of water streaming so thick they leave streaks on her wine-colored rain boots.
"Oh! When did that happen? You see, you never tell me these things."
"I did tell you, Mother."
"When?"
Regina grimaces as a passing man in a black suit nearly rams his umbrella into her face. "Months ago," she replies, sloshing her way off the curb and lifting her brow in place of betraying her exasperation, even bitterness, to her mother, "when it happened."
"You see? These are the kinds of things that I would know if we saw more of each other."
"I told you, Mother-You know what, it doesn't matter." Regina trails off, crossing the last street before she reaches the tube stop. "I-I have to go, Mother. I'm almost home." No use in starting up the comments about the car again.
"Very well. You know I love you, right, Sweetheart? I'm just feeling lonely."
"I love you too, Mother," Regina returns, feeling her shoulders sag. She feels worn out, even more than she had a few minutes ago. But Mother's lonely. "You could come to dinner, if you want? Just while Daddy's not there."
"Oh, I would love to, but I have an engagement tonight. Would tomorrow work?"
Regina sighs with relief. "Tomorrow's fine, Mother. But I'm having dinner with Robin, so he'll be joining us." Mother may invite herself over, but she's not getting Regina to cancel on Robin. Regina hears her falter for just a moment, before she replies, "Very well. How's eight o'clock?"
"Fine."
"Good then. Goodbye, Regina."
"Goodbye, Mother."
If she'd written down a prediction for their conversation beforehand, Regina thinks as she closes her umbrella and begins to climb down into the station, she would hardly have missed a word or thought. Including the anger she feels at herself, now, that she let the whole thing play out anyway.
.
.
.
"Hello," Robin says brightly, looking up from the greens he'd been chopping to find Regina hovering at the door, very wet and very tired.
"Hey," she returns, a little surprised. "You're here."
"Mhm. I figured you'd need dinner, and I had these vegetables around, so I thought I'd make us some soup."
She finds herself smiling despite the bad mood that had begun to fester.
"You must be freezing; it's been pouring for almost an hour."
She shakes the rain off of her umbrella and deposits it on the mat just outside the door, humming in acknowledgement. "One moment. I have to dry off my violin case before it seeps through." She glances up briefly as she uses a gloved hand to brush the rain off her violin's waterproof case before setting it in its usual spot beneath the front table. Her smile falls as she glances around the apartment. She'll have to straighten up a little before her mother comes tomorrow. Robin's used more pots and pans in the kitchen than will fit in the dishwasher, and she'll have to find some new flowers, and go to the store to buy whatever she decides to make. Regina must look tense to him, because a moment later, he's walking towards her with a sympathetic frown.
"What is it?" he asks, closing the last of the distance between them and reaching out a hand to catch hers. "Are you all right?" He smells faintly of freshly chopped herbs.
She slides one hand down his arm to his wrist, her eyes never leaving his. "It's been such a day," she admits. "Work was stressful again."
"Mm." He reaches behind her to throw the door shut, squeezing her hand as he guides them a few paces further into the flat, where she can leave her dripping raincoat and sodden gloves.
"And-Mother's coming for dinner again tomorrow."
"Regina-"
"I spoke to her on the phone," she explains, easing past him towards the kitchen. "Daddy's still in the hospital for a couple of days, and she's lonely."
"Your father's going to be in the hospital for an extra day? Is he doing all right?"
Regine ignores that throb of anxiety. "Fine."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not particularly," she retrieves a mug and teabag from the cupboards, aware that she's being a bit more sullen than he deserves. She should really get started on the apartment once she's put the water on to boil, she thinks.
"Are you certain that you truly want to have your mother over? Last time could've gone...a bit better."
Regina scoffs. Last time they'd had the pleasure of hosting Mother during one of Daddy's hospital stays, Regina showed her the door halfway through dessert. Are you certain he's not with you for the money, dear, she'd asked, badly whispered while Robin was clearing the dishes and not at all out of hearing distance. At Regina's outraged Mother, Cora had continued, I'm asking as your mother, my love. I'm merely looking out for you.
By the time Robin had returned from loading the dishwasher, Cora was stepping primly through the door with a stern scowl on her lips, and a glare reserved especially for him.
He'd laughed it off, until he'd seen her tearing up and pulled her into his arms. But Mother will know better than to do that again, won't she?
"She's lonely, Robin. They don't have many friends who she could spend time with, and Daddy's been away so much lately, and she's stressed about him-"
"But that doesn't mean you're obligated to have her over tomorrow, after the week you've had," he says. She can hear his frustration breaking through the intended gentleness of the suggestion-at Mother, she knows, yet she can't help but feel that some of it is directed at her, as well.
"It doesn't matter," she dismisses as he joins her in the kitchen and tips the last of the ingredients into the soup pot. "It's the right thing to do."
"Is it?" His palm skates down her back before falling at his side as he leans against the counter. "Or is it just what she's convinced you that you have to do?"
Regina bristles. "What?"
"You know what I mean," he insists. "It's how she worms her way in."
"I'm not sure that's the right image," she argues. "My mother is not exactly one for subtlety, Robin."
"Oh you mean like the last time she came over for dinner and whispered that I'm only with you for the money."
"I did kick her out, if you'll remember."
"I don't care about me, Regina. I will be fine if I never win your mother over. I'm worried about you."
"I can take care of myself," she argues, fighting against the burning she feels in her eyes. This has been an absolutely horrible day, amidst a horrible week, and stress always seems to get to her enough to leave her on the verge of tears.
"But that doesn't mean that you have to do it alone," Robin adds gently. He reaches for her, and this time she leans into the hand he places on her shoulder, her tense muscles relaxing slightly, reaching out for the calm he provides. "Ignore her," he pleads. "She doesn't know you, and she doesn't want to."
Regina stiffens, and then she's lifting his hands away, turning from him. "You don't know that," she argues.
"Regina-"
She feels her lips purse, her muscles tighten, her gaze turn away from his. "I'm sorry that she hates you," she says bitterly. "I would change that if I could."
"Regina," he sighs, "you know that's not what I meant."
"You're just my boyfriend, Robin. You don't live here, you don't know me as perfectly as you seem to think, and if you don't want to see my mother, you don't have to come tomorrow."
The urge to cry heats her eyes even more insistently at the way he looks at her, stung, defeated as he turns away, his tears glistening silently on his cheeks, while she had refused to let hers fall.
They spend the next hour in near-silence, bumping awkwardly into each other in the kitchen as Robin finishes dinner, and Regina straightens up in preparation for Mother's visit.
Regina can feel Robin's eyes on her as she tries to enjoy the hot and, as usual, delicious soup. Once she's eaten a little, and is no longer starving and frozen and utterly exhausted from her day, she feels her frustrations softening into gratitude and affection and perhaps some mild exasperation at his stubbornness, a far cry from the anger that had been burning in her before, and the guilt that had followed.
He lets out a heavy breath of relief when she turns to him as they've put their dishes away.
"I'm sorry," she sighs, taking his hand, and then drawing closer until she leans against him, her chin tucked over his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be so-it just-it terrifies me when we argue," she confesses, her voice cracking at the very end.
He sighs, tangling his fingers with hers and pulling back so that they can see each others' faces. He cups her jaw with one hand. "I know, Love. I'm sorry I pushed you."
She nods, a tear escaping her damp eyes and falling down her cheek. He wipes it from her skin.
"I love you," she says, her hand sliding around his side and settling over his heart. "You know that, don't you?"
"I know." His other hand runs up and down her back. "I love you, too." Robin tucks some of her hair behind her ear, and she leans into the touch. "Why don't you go change, and l'll make us some tea, and we can talk, hm?"
She searches his eyes, her anxieties settling to a calm that mirrors their ocean-blue. "Sounds lovely," she agrees.
By the time she reemerges from the bathroom, more comfortable in cotton pajamas than she's been all day, combing through wet hair with her fingers, he's on the sofa with two steaming mugs of decaffeinated chai.
"Hi," she says, sitting beside him and folding her legs beneath her.
"Hey." He catches her hand and squeezes lightly before passing her her tea. "Comfortable?"
She takes a sip, and he grins at the smile-though small-that it brings to her lips. "Very."
He takes a deep breath. "I think that it is admirable of you, to want to care for your mother."
"Thank you," she breathes.
"I just want to make sure you also care for yourself."
She nods. "This is something I have to do, Robin. For me."
He frowns, looking down into his steaming mug.
"You don't have to eat with us," she begins, "not because of what I said earlier, but...if you don't want to. I would understand."
He looks up at that. "Regina, no, of course I'm going to stay-I just- I hate to watch you with her when she's being-it breaks my heart."
She's touched, but unconvinced, fighting that tinge of annoyance that he always has to poke and prod at her weakest parts. "I know. I'll be fine, truly. I promise."
He sighs heavily. "If you're certain this is what you want."
"I am."
"All right." He takes a final sip of tea, leaving the empty cup on the rug and tugging at their joined hands.
Regina smiles softly, setting her half-empty mug of tea on a coaster and crossing the short distance between them. She meets him for a brief kiss, then tucks her head onto his shoulder as he winds one arm around her.
"What happened today?" he asks after a few moments.
"Hm?"
He begins to comb his fingers through her drying hair. She leans into the touch. "You know, other than, well, all of this."
"Oh. We're not playing the Mozart for the concert series next month, apparently. He's done with that. Spent so much time hollering at us about it in rehearsals that he's decided it's time for something new."
"You worked so hard on that, and you spent hours working out bowing on half a day's notice," he says indignantly.
Somehow, his frustration on her behalf allows some of her own to ease. "Yes. But it happens."
He sighs. "Still, you weren't in the right mood for your mother this evening."
"No." Her fingers pause where they had been tracing absent-minded patterns across his chest.
Robin's fingers stop for a moment, too, and he tilts his head thoughtfully. "Do you think I could subtly inquire about your fortunes while you're making the tea?"
Regina scoffs, stretching her legs out beside his on the couch.
"No? Hmm." He makes a show of tilting his head to the other side as if he has to think hard about his other options. "What if I slip the china into my jacket while the two of you aren't looking?"
"Robin," she laughs.
"Seriously. I could abscond with your wallet, right in the middle of dinner." He bends to kiss her neck. "I suppose the most valuable thing in the flat is your violin."
She shoves his chest. "Don't even joke about that."
"What? I have a reputation to uphold. Clearly I'm dating you for the grand inheritance I assume you have."
"Mm. How do you put up with me?"
They chuckle softly together. "It is, Regina Mills, sincerely a pleasure."
"Will you stay tonight?" she asks, allowing her head to rest on his shoulder again.
He weaves a hand through her damp hair. "Of course."
"The Addison's daughter just married a duke, you know," Cora says primly. Robin fights the urge to roll his eyes. Honestly, how many of these stories are they going to make their way through in one evening? How many could she possibly have?
"But does he grow his own roses for his wife?" Robin asks archly, catching Regina's smirk out of the corner of his eye. He pours himself another glass of red wine. No point in dealing with Cora Mills without it.
"Well I'm sure he has people for that," Cora says dismissively.
Robin nearly chokes on his sip of wine. Good Lord, this woman.
Cora turns away from him and back to Regina, as though the exchange had never taken place. "And Anna Clifton has been put in charge of the new division at her company."
"Mother—" Regina begins.
"Have you ever thought, dear…I mean you were always so keen on business, when you were younger. I'm certain your father would know a few—"
"I was never interested in business, Mother," Regina says calmly, taking a sip of her wine. Robin looks between them.
"What do you mean? You were always so good at—"
"Mrs. Mills-" Robin starts, his jaw tense, "I-"
"-think dinner must be nearly ready," Regina finishes for him with a stern look. "Robin, would you mind checking?" He sighs and stands, leaving behind his chair in the living room to go check on the salmon en croute that's likely at least five more minutes away from being cooked through.
"Thank you, Mr. Locksley," Cora adds, managing to be somehow both simpering and dismissive, as though she and Regina are having dinner together, and he's the butler.
"Robin," he corrects with a terse smile, bending to kiss Regina's cheek on his way out. He doesn't have to look to imagine Cora's frown, but, well, tough luck for her.
The kitchen opens into a small dining area, already set for three, and the living room's just to the left, still within sight as he dutifully removes the salad from the refrigerator and peeks at the fish.
Regina brings her mother to sit at the table and offers a second glass of wine.
"Hey," Regina murmurs in a low voice, joining him so that she can retrieve the Chardonnay and grab a match to light the candles on the table. "Just-don't let her get to you, all right? I'm fine."
"I didn't start it," he sing-songs under his breath.
"Robin, please?"
"Fine," he agrees.
"Thank you," she runs a hand across his shoulder and down his back. "Love you."
"Mm. Do you want to plate the fish, or-"
"Regina, dear?"
"Hold on," Regina murmurs to him, her hand falling away. "Yes, Mother?" she calls.
"You haven't asked me about your father yet."
"You do it," Regina rushes out, stepping out of the kitchen, heels clacking against the floor. "We spoke about him on the phone just this morning," Robin hears her say as he grabs a lemon and begins to slice it into wedges.
"Don't you care to know if anything's changed?"
Robin's hand tightens around the knife.
"I assumed you would tell me," Regina answers smoothly. Robin smirks as he reaches above the stove for a serving dish.
He hears the sound of wine being poured as he plucks a few sprigs of dill from a plant in the window. "The doctors don't tell me anything, you know," Cora continues, "it's so hard to understand why he has to stay there so much longer than they'd planned."
"Daddy's very sick, Mother," Regina answers, speaking as though to the petulant child Cora makes herself into for these conversations, "sometimes, they don't know exactly what's going to happen."
Robin drizzles olive oil and red wine vinegar onto the salad, mixing it gently with a spoon as he listens. Nothing could ever explain Regina's relationship with each of her parents more, he muses with a frown, than the names she has always called them. Mother, for the cold and demanding woman who couldn't bear the intimacy of Mum; and Daddy, for the spineless father who loves her deeply but never would stand between the overbearing woman in his life, and the kind one.
They lapse into silence, and Robin opens the oven door to find that their main course looks done. Good, then. They can eat, and be done with this.
Robin walks in a couple of minutes later carrying the salmon, arranged on white ceramic with dill and lemon, then returns for the salad, and sets it at the end of the table, offering to serve Cora first.
"These roses, Regina," she begins as she folds and refolds her napkin across her lap, "they are very beautiful. Where did you get them?"
"I grew them," Robin answers as he takes his seat across from Regina at the square table. They are Regina's favorites: deep red, warm peach, and delicate cream in a small bouquet.
"What, here?"
"No. In one of my client's gardens."
"You bring them home?" she asks, clearly surprised.
"Some. He has far more than he could want, or than the garden needs."
"Ah," Cora replies, her voice flat, as though she'd been expecting him to say that he stole them.
"You should see the garden itself, Mother. It's lovely, even this time of year, and Robin designed most of the landscaping."
"You're friends with some of these clients?" Cora asks, the prim facade she places over the words doing little to cover her stunned disapproval.
"Yes," Regina adds softly.
Robin bites his lip against a grimace in expectation of Cora's response, and sure enough she quickly turns the conversation back towards a topic more agreeable to her ends.
"You know, the Eastons's son is a proper architect. He designs skyscrapers. Corporate buildings, government, that sort of thing. He just broke up with his girlfriend, it seems, poor dear. You would like him, Regina. He's very bright, and competitive. Definitely going places."
Robin cannot help the scoff that escapes his lips, but Regina beats him to a verbal response.
"I'm taken."
"Regina, you're always imagining I mean things that I do not. I only meant that he's a very nice boy."
"I don't think I am, Mother. Drop it, please."
A defeated sigh. "Very well."
Robin bites his lip again to hide a faint grin of triumph. The arguing he can take. It's when Regina's completely cowed by her mother that he worries and angers.
"How was rehearsal today?" he asks. He's nearing the end of the food on his plate, and staring down the not-so-distant time when there won't even be the sound of cutlery on china to fill the silence.
"Fine," Regina answers once she's swallowed her sip of wine. "Better than yesterday, certainly. The Beethoven really came together today. We got the balance right."
"Good," he replies with a soft smile at her across the table. He's about to ask another question, perhaps about which performance she thinks it might be best for him to attend, when Cora interrupts them.
"Oh, My Dear, I do hate to think of you working so hard just to play this instrument with...thirty other people. It seems like such a waste of your talents and energies. I mean, you're wasting your time, Dear. Playing the violin and dating the boy you played with when you were a little girl? Don't you think you've outgrown them? I hate to see you throw away your ambitions like this."
Robin's hands curl into fists that only tighten when his glance at Regina confirms that she's too angry, too hurt to speak, her lips pursed and eyes dark.
Cora looks between them. "I'm sorry, did I say something untoward? I merely meant to express my concern for my daughter."
Cora cuts another small bite of her salmon, pushing the dill she probably suspects him of growing to the side as if it's poison, and smiling a fake, easy smile.
Robin looks to Regina, who has dropped her fork with a quiet clink and is now staring into her lap, a single tear falling down one cheek, unnoticed. Robin reaches for her hand beneath the table, but finds her fingers limp and unmoving, every part of her tense and resigned at the same time. He wonders for a moment what it would be best to do. Right up until the moment he sees Cora noticing the same things as him, the same tense set of Regina's jaw and resigned slouch of her shoulders, the same tears escaping more and more freely despite her best efforts, and watches his love's mother grin, eyes bright and lips curved up, at her own daughter's distress.
"Ms. Mills," Robin finally begins, turning to her, "I'm sorry, but I have to say this." He feels the physical weight of it as they both turn to look at him, and suddenly every instant of anger he's felt at this woman this evening, and perhaps for long before that, collapses into one. "Your daughter is a brilliant musician. The musical community agrees. When she was eight years old, her teacher told you she had a special gift for it." He takes a breath, his voice growing louder. " I've been to at least one performance of everything she's been in this past year, which is more than can be said for you, even when she was a child. But more importantly, it makes her happy, as does being with me, which you would know if you ever bothered to give me an honest chance. And your daughter's happiness—doesn't that seem like what you should care about, if you love her as much as you claim to when you come into her home and tell her all of the things you think she's doing wrong?"
"Mr. Locksley."
"Robin."
"Mr. Locksley. I don't know from where you get the nerve to tell me how I should behave around my own child."
"That's not what he was saying, Mother, he-"
"And you're defending him, too, now?"
"I think he meant that-"
"I meant exactly what I said," Robin interrupts, meeting Cora's eyes dead on.
"Well, if you don't want to hear such reasonable suggestions from your own mother," she continues, feigning hurt she could not possibly feel as she looks at her daughter, "then I'm not sure what to say."
"Then stop," Robin says, voice low and angry. "That's enough."
Cora looks between them, flustered, furious, and then she's pushing back her chair and making her way to the door. "Well, as I can see my presence is no longer required here, I will leave you." She places a hand on Regina's cheek for a moment. "Think about what I said, will you." She turns to Robin for a cold, "Goodnight," then back to Regina, a sickeningly pitying frown on her face. "Goodnight, Dear."
Once Cora is out of sight, Robin is stacking their empty plates angrily, downing the remnants of his wine in the process.
Regina turns on him the second the door has clicked shut. "What were you thinking?" she demands.
"More than she was, obviously."
"Robin, you just drove my mother out of the house."
"She had finished eating. She left," he points out, heading into the kitchen with a stack of plates.
"After what you said, of course she did!" she cries, following him.
"Defending you, you mean." He sets his plates in the sink, taking the empty wine glasses from her hands and adding them to the pile.
"Yes, from having a normal evening with her that didn't end in disaster."
He bends to open the dishwasher. "Oh right, because the last one went so well."
"Robin!"
"What?"
She steps around him and turns on the sink, rinsing the remnants of food from the plates. "I would prefer if she didn't hate you."
"Well I don't know how this could possibly be news to you Regina, but she already does. She has since the moment you wandered into the servant's quarters and I dared to become your friend."
Regina pauses with her clenched hands hovering over the next dish, and turns to him to answer. "She's upset about my father."
Robin scoffs. "Like she hasn't always done this."
"I handled my relationship with my mother for years without you."
Robin grabs the dishes as she hands them to him, placing them in the dishwasher less carefully than he probably should. "Well, I'm trying to help."
"How chivalrous. Since you always know best."
Robin stands, giving up any pretense of getting things done while they're having this fight. She turns off the water. He dries his hands on a tea towel, then passes it to her, waiting until she looks at him again, trembling with frustration. "I apologize for actually giving a damn, Regina." His voice is nastier than it should be; nastier than he'd meant.
She returns it. "I don't think you need to. This is none of your business."
"I think that if we're going to do this, if both she and I are going to be part of your life, then it is."
She shakes her head, pushing past him.
"Damn it, Regina you can't just run away when we argue. You can't leave while we're talking about this."
She spins back to face him. "Oh, right because running—that's what you do."
"What?"
"You couldn't wait two weeks, could you? You kissed me, and suddenly you had gotten a job on the other side of the country and hadn't even said goodbye."
He walks towards her. "Is that what this is about? I've tried to talk about that ever since we found each other again." He's spoken of their separation so many times he cannot remember them all. With gentle teasing and subtle references and pointed, serious remarks. He's tried to ask her how she felt about it when they were out to dinner for their six-month anniversary, and when he'd cried after she absent-mindedly began to play the melody from the piece she'd been playing when they first kissed, all those years ago. He's whispered in her ear how glad he was that they'd found each other, with his palms tracing her sweaty, sated body, and he'd growled the words into her lips while he was buried inside her, because even if the thought of that discussion scares her, he couldn't resist. And yet she has always, always changed the subject, evaded the question, pretended that it doesn't still hurt both of them the way he knows it does. He finds himself suddenly determined to have this conversation. Now.
His voice is oddly calm as he continues. "Regina, you took the offer from Cambridge. You were leaving in a couple of months to study economics, anyway."
"So you decided you'd leave me first." Her voice cracks, her eyes wide.
He steps a foot closer, tears burning the back of his eyes. "It's not like you tried to stop me."
"I called you!" She takes a large step, closing half the distance between them. "I called you and left a message after you left and you never—"
"It was too hard. I missed you so much; I couldn't bear to hear you telling me that it was for the best, that—I was young, I was stupid, Regina, please, I—I was afraid."
"You were afraid?" Her eyes are bright, hurt, angry. "And how do you think I felt, with you running away like it was a mistake, like our friendship didn't mean anything anymore."
"This isn't about what she said, is it? About living in the past?"
"What?" she cries. "Of course not. How could you think that I would-?"
"-and yet you won't let me defend what we have to your mother? Regina, you cannot just allow your mother to tear us apart over the past every time we see her. We decided to do this."
It slips out of her, venomous. "Well maybe we shouldn't have."
He falters, stung. "You don't mean that."
She swallows, and remains silent. He imagines himself softening her, as he always has. Even when they were young. He'll venture a quiet repetition of her name, a tentative finger tracing her cheekbone, fingers slipping into her hair. A still patience until she's ready to lean into him and be comforted. But in this moment all he can think is how many times he could've done so if they'd never been apart, and how she stopped them from it, and he feels suddenly helpless, and weary. Perhaps, he finds himself wondering bitterly, dread settling in his stomach, perhaps all he's ever done when he's drawn her into him for comfort is prolong something that should've been let go years ago. She has asked how he could think her mother just influenced her certainty about their relationship, but he truly has to wonder how he could think anything else. "Regina," he tries, nevertheless, reaching out a trembling hand. She turns away from him, and suddenly he is not hurt but angry. At Cora, at her. At himself. At architects and successful business women and salmon en croute and pale peach roses. His arm shifts away from her, then falls limp at his side.
"You know what, I'm tired of this. You have to speak up for the things you want. You did it for that damned violin. If you aren't willing to do it for me then maybe this isn't what we should be doing, anyway." Exhaustion wars with anger, and deep down a sinking sensation that he's indulging in emotions he'll regret later. But not now. "I'll see you later."
He grabs his jacket from its hook, yanking it onto his arms. He glances back once, his hand hovering over the doorknob. She doesn't say anything, and she is curled into herself, her face hidden behind one hand. He pulls the door open, and leaves.
Regina does not move until long after the door has shut behind Robin. She stands there, one hand covering her eyes, her arm limp and heavy in the air, the other looped tightly around her waist. For a few moments, all she feels is rage.
He has no right to interfere like this, and after he did, he apparently thinks so little of her that he chalked up all of her frustrations to her agreeing with Cora's opinion of him.
As if she is so similar to her mother. And as if completely ignoring her is an easy and painless option.
But as she stands there, her hand grasping tighter and tighter at her ribs, their angry words echoing over and over again, what she begins to recall is the tears he'd shed over many of them, and the pain in his eyes, and the barely perceptible tremble in his jaw.
She knows him well enough to admit that he wouldn't make those accusations flippantly, that he wouldn't accuse her of listening to Cora just to hurt her, and that his put-together demeanor often hides deeper insecurities.
He must really feel like that.
How cruel must she be if she has moved someone as kind as him, as easily moved by a soft word or touch to hum an I love you or kiss her cheek, to doubt her? She's not good for him. She never has been. She sees their past in a different light, and suddenly what she remembers, instead of him moving away all of those years ago, is her running from their first kiss, and avoiding him every day after. She remembers that he was the one to come and find her a year ago, and what she sees now is everyone's hurt and disappointment. Robin's, and Mother's, and Daddy's, even. She hurts them, no matter what she does, no matter how much she loves them. And yet if they left. If...when Robin left, it would break her beyond repair.
She sinks into a dining room chair, silent tears giving way to crying she cannot control no matter how hard she presses her face into her arms on the table. She has to do something to stop this. To stop all of it.
When she has worn herself out beyond the ability to cry, the deafening silence of the room, the ticking clock and settling pipes and occasional sounds of traffic drop her into fitful and broken moments of sleep.
"Hey," Robin murmurs, squatting beside Regina where she rests on one of the dining room chairs.
She blinks as she lifts her head from her arms and smoothes down her hair. "You came back."
"Of course."
She cups his jaw, her eyes damp, and he turns to press a kiss to her palm. "Look, I-"
"I-" Robin breaks off as they speak over each other and nods. "Go ahead."
"I think we need some space," she says, her thumb stroking along his jaw, trembling. "For a while."
"I didn't mean to…" He searches for words to explain, that somehow he'd been indulging in the very same doubts he'd accused her of having, that he doesn't know what else he can say, what else he can do to convince her of the way he sees her, even when she cannot see it herself.
"I know." She takes her hand away, and the loss of it is physical enough to be a touch as well. "We both said things we didn't mean. But that's just it. I think we need to think about whether this is what we-what we want."
He gathers up her hand in an instant, pressing it to his cheek. "It is. For me, it is."
She smiles almost sleepily and sweeps a few fingers across his anxiously wrinkled forehead. "We'll see."
"But I-but-are you certain you're all right?"
"Please, Robin?" He looks into her weary eyes, and his protest dies off.
"All right," he agrees, frowning. "All right."
"You don't have to leave right now; it's late."
"I know. I think it's probably best, though." Robin clears his throat, shakily wiping the back of his hand across his eyes, every fear they'd dragged to the surface this evening twisting tightly around his heart once more. "It's all right. John'll still be up."
Regina squeezes his hand, and he cannot help his rough whisper. "Can I kiss you?"
She nods, and then he's leaning forward slowly, almost carefully, his lips meeting her forehead, her cheek, her eyelids as they flutter closed. He pulls back for a moment, one hand sliding into her hair and tilting her head back, and then he presses his lips to hers, softly at first until she sighs and leans into it.
They separate a moment later with regretful sighs, hers stifled and covered by a heartbreaking glimpse of despair.
"You'll call me tomorrow?" he pleads, easing his hand out of her hair."I'll call you soon," she amends with a trembling voice, squeezing his hand and heading towards the kitchen with the last of the dishes from their dinner.
