Many thanks to Cls2011 for the prompt that started this entire mess and to miscreant rose for read-throughs and critiques. :) You two are the best. And thank you, dear readers, for taking on another chapter. :) Your thoughts are always most welcome and appreciated.
She isn't sure what to make of Robin Locksley.
He sits on one of the beds, going through a case, laying out guns and ammunition, a knife and handcuffs, drying them off, studying them in a manner she cannot read.
"Are you trying to frighten me?"
He looks up at her, a small grin toying with the corner of his lips.
"You don't strike me as the type to frighten easily."
She chuckles in return, watching as he begins to slide the weapons back into the enclosure, closing it securely.
"You're right. I don't. Otherwise, you'd be riding out the storm in someone else's room."
He folds his hands and leans his elbows on his knees, raising a brow in her direction.
"I'm glad I'm riding it out in yours."
She feels something in his gaze even though it is shadowed, and she wishes the power would come back on so she could determine the color of his eyes.
"Is this how you normally pick up women?" she quips, enjoying the sound of his laughter. "By begging them to let you stay over in their hotel rooms until the storm lets up?"
The wind rattles the window as if on cue, and he stands staring at the drapes, moving in her direction.
"You should come away from the window, Regina," he states, extending his hand towards her. "Anything could come flying through the glass in a storm like this."
She hesitates but complies, moving towards the back of the small room, wondering how much protection a few extra feet will offer.
"Should we move back into the bathroom or the closet?"
A creaking sound outside has him nodding before he speaks.
"Yes. I think that might be wise."
She grabs her flashlight, he his case. They move into the small, windowless room, closing the door behind them as they adjust to the tight space.
"You can have the seat," he quips, grandly gesturing to the commode.
"Aren't you the gentleman?" she observes sarcastically, earning a grin she likes too much.
"My mother would be so proud," he returns with a bow, garnering an eye roll and a near snort. "She would be appalled if she thought I wasn't minding my manners, especially with a lady."
"Does she approve of all of your toys?" she questions, indicating his weapons case with a flick of her fingers.
"I grew up in Texas," he returns. "My mother is one hell of a shot."
"So am I," she states, feeling the way he looks her over in the muted light.
"I'm glad to hear it," he muses as he sits on the bathtub's rim. "It's important that a woman know how to defend herself."
She senses something behind his statement.
"Is that why you became a Federal Marshall?" she asks, her voice loaded. "To defend the weaker sex?"
"I never said women were the weaker sex," he amends quickly. "Just that it is important that they be able to fight off any monsters that want to do them harm."
A shiver runs up her back.
"Is that what you're doing out here? Hunting down a monster?"
He is silent a moment as a blast of thunder rocks the walls.
"I was," he nods. "Until this hurricane got in my way."
Her heart thuds against her neck.
"Where were you heading before the storm stopped you?"
His question makes her heart ache.
"On my way to my son," she answers, looking away from him. "He's eleven."
"I have a son," he offers, unable to keep from smiling. "Almost five years old."
She hums in approval, staring back at him, wondering but afraid to ask.
"Are you—"
They stop, laughing at questions blurted out simultaneously.
"After you," he offers with a nod.
"I was just going to ask about your wife," she manages, swallowing down nerves she shouldn't feel. "If she minds you going off on these witch hunts of yours."
"Monster hunts," he corrects before dropping his eyes. "And she can't mind. Not anymore. She's dead."
The words land with the grace of a rock.
"I'm sorry," she breathes, feeling their impact.
"So am I," he admits. "Roland doesn't even remember her."
"Roland?" she questions. "Your son?"
The boy's name brings an immediate smile to his face.
"Yes. And yours?"
"Henry," she answers, somehow missing him more by speaking his name.
"Is he with his father?"
She shakes her head before gazing at him directly.
"I'm not married."
He nods slowly, pursing his lips.
"I adopted Henry when he was an infant," she explains. "It's always just been the two of us until recently."
"What happened?" he questions. "A new man in your life?"
Eyes lock into each other as the temperature between them rises perceptibly.
"I don't have time for that," she voices, catching a flicker in his gaze. "No, Henry decided he wanted to meet his birth mother and managed to track her down. He's with her right now."
He leans in closer.
"That can't be easy," he observes as she tries to swallow down what is still tender. "Sharing your child with another woman."
"It isn't," she admits quietly. "But it's better now than it used to be. He wants her in his life, and I'll do whatever is necessary to keep him in mine."
"Spoken like a true lioness," he muses with an appreciative nod. "God help anyone who threatens her young."
"You're very observant," she states, receiving a small chuckle in return.
"I have to be," he shrugs. "Comes with the job."
She absorbs all of this, still wanting more but uncertain if it is wise to keep probing.
"So what happened?" she dares. "To your wife?"
He sucks in air, exhaling it slowly into the weighted silence of their enclosure. Then the walls vibrate under the stress of the elements, an ungodly noise from outside pushing them closer together.
"A monster," he confides, so close she can feel his whisper on her cheek. "She was killed by a monster."