She wakes early on Sunday with the tell tale ache settled along her limbs, every cell in her body begging to slip back into the blissful oblivion of sleep.
No. Not today.
Today was supposed to be filled with candlelight and dimples, glasses of wine and high heeled shoes, not extra hours of sleep and handfuls of pain meds swallowed around bitterness and mouthfuls of water that taste like lead. She was going to soak in the tub and deep condition her hair, shave her legs and paint her nails. Today was supposed to be about something other than the disease coursing through her body, dismantling her piece by piece from the inside out.
It was. But clearly her body has other ideas.
Reaching blindly along the floor, she fumbles for the controls to the heating pad burrowed below her sheets, flipping it on high with practiced precision, before snuggling back under the covers. Within a few minutes the blissful heat starts to warm her brittle muscles, softening joints that have seized in slumber until they feel oiled and pliant enough to move without snapping and pulling.
It's officially a bad day.
Why did today have to be a bad one?
She allows herself a few more minutes wrapped in the warm cocoon of her bed, blankets and pillows cushioning her battered body, lulling her into a semblance of normalcy, before tossing back the corner of her duvet and struggling into a sitting position. She snags the cord to the heating pad with the tips of her fingers and clicks it off as she swings her legs to the side of the mattress, slowly standing on wobbly ankles that somehow hold her weight despite the tingle burning from the tips of her toes to the flex of her knees and the lock of her hips.
She'll feel better after she has a shower.
She limps into her ensuite, stripping off her night clothes and chucking them in the hamper before turning on the shower so the water can warm up while she brushes her teeth. By the time she's rinsed the last foamy remnants of spearmint toothpaste from her mouth, the room has filled with steam, the mirror fogging up and blurring away the tired reflection staring back at her. She pops open the bright blue flap marked 'Sunday' on her pill box, dumping the assortment of oddly colored capsules into her hand before popping all five of them in her mouth at once, tossing them back with a bit of water she slurps from her cupped palms.
She eyes the solitary orange tube of pain pills resting on the counter, debating whether or not she should take one now to edge off the pain.
Not yet. It's not that bad. Yet.
Maybe she'll take one later if the shower doesn't help. Turning away from the bottle she trudges back to the shower, making sure her towel and dressing gown are within an arm's length for when she gets out, before stepping in and shutting the foggy glass door behind herself.
The water feels like a thousand molten needles piercing through her skin even though her bones feel like solid ice. The dual sensations tingle along her limbs, her fingers bending and flexing under the spray until they feel less like blunt, useless glaciers attached to her hands. Clenching her teeth, she steps fully under the shower head, biting hard at the flesh on the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out as pain lances through her under the force of the merciless water. So much for the grand plans she had of deep conditioning her hair and shaving her legs before her date.
There is no way dinner is going to happen.
…
Robin usually dreads the weekends Roland is away, the last few days at the end of a long, lonely week until his boy returns stretching silently ahead of him, each miserable minute passing slower than the last. But this weekend he's woken each morning with a smile; he's faced each day with an energy and an anticipation sparking through his nerves that he hasn't felt in a while, and it's all because of Regina.
He replays their date in his mind as he tidies the house, taking the opportunity to gather wayward toys and books while Roland isn't underfoot to scatter them around again. Yesterday went well, better than he expected. He went into their date prepared for her to have all of her walls up, but instead she was vulnerable and candid, explaining her illness to him in a way that made her daily struggles clear and understandable. What broke his heart was the steeled resignation behind her eyes, the absolute certainty she seemed to have that he was going to walk away. It makes him wonder who walked out on her in the past. Who let her down? Who made her feel like she needed those walls just to get by?
Maybe eventually he'll find out.
He shrugs off the thought as he snags a random Spiderman t-shirt that somehow ended up wedged behind one of the sofa cushions and uses it as a crude baggie to wrap up the village of lego blocks he's gathered from around the room. There's no point in getting ahead of himself, no matter how taken he is with this woman. He'll just take things one day at a time.
He's in this, or at least he's willing to try. He wants to know her and her boy, he wants to understand her life, to share in her challenges and her joys, but he knows it might take her a bit more time to get on the same page. Until then, he'll just have to reassure her that he won't disappoint her in the way she seems to have been in the past.
He sighs, scooping up an armful of Roland's picture books, stuffed animals, a random action figure or two, and the t-shirt wrapped bundle of legos and starts lugging them upstairs. For now he'll have to content himself with things that can be accomplished, like tidying the toy cluttered mess that is his home; there will be plenty of time to worry about relationship progressions later.
...
Regina eyes the cane resting in the umbrella stand by the door, the curved, finger-worn handle beckoning to her with the promise of relief; pride and ego warring momentarily with the screaming in her hip and knee until she gives in and pulls it from its metal cage. She needs the damned cane if she has any hope of making it across the street without crumpling to the ground.
He said he knew what he was signing up for, well this is what he signed up for. Canceled dinners and limping limbs.
Curling her fingers around the end of her cane, she opens the door and starts the slow trudge across the street. At least it's warmer today, the fickle New England weather ticking back up into the mid 60s, so at least she doesn't have to worry about dodging patches of ice as she clomps her way over to Robin's front door.
In the years since her diagnosis she has learned to appreciate the little things: cups of cocoa topped with a perfect layer of marshmallows, dandelion fuzz that blows away with a single wish-filled puff of breath, the delicious feeling of tucking her hand beneath the cool side of the pillow. She has come to revel in the small things, the little pleasures in life, to savor them and eek them out into spiraled semblances of happiness because she learned a long time ago that she was not the kind of person who was meant for the 'big things' the 'normal things'. Those things—like marriage, pregnancy, health— were never meant to be hers. Each clack of her cane against the pavement between their houses just reminds her how foolish it was to allow herself to think—to hope—that maybe just this once she could have a little slice of normal.
By the time she makes it across the street her knee aches, despite using the cane, and a thin ribbon of pain is slicing up her arm and down her back. She just needs to get this over with; she needs him to see what a bad idea this is, so that she can slither home, curl up under her blankets, and lick her wounds. She takes a moment to gather her thoughts before sucking in a deep breath and knocking on the door; he answers on the third knock.
"Hi, I wasn't expecting to see you until later," he smiles, holding the door open a little wider. "Do you want to come in and sit down?"
"No," she snaps, a bit too quickly. "I mean, it's not that I don't want to, but if I come in and sit down and you're, well, you, then I'm never going to get this out."
"Okay—" he draws out the 'a' as he steps out onto the porch with her, letting the door slide shut behind him. "What's going on? Everything okay?"
"I don't think dinner tonight is a good idea after all. I'm not having a great day," she rushes out with a mirthless chuckle. "And it was a bad idea to begin with."
"Woah, there; I thought we'd gotten past this," he says, his face screwing up in an adorable wrinkle of confusion.
She sighs, adjusting her grip on her cane so she can stand a bit more comfortably, relieving some of the pressure building in her hips and the base of her spine. "Look at me Robin. Really look at me." She fixes him with a determined stare and tries not to squirm as his eyes roam over her. "This is not something you need in your life. This is who I am. I have bad days—more often than I care to admit—and sometimes, no matter how much I want to do something, it's just not a possibility. Especially on days like today when I don't have to worry about being strong or put together in front of Henry and I can just allow myself to rest."
"I would never interfere with that. I would never ask you to do more than you're capable of or comfortable with," Robin reassures, "And you are beautiful, just as you are, even on your worst days," he smiles, that damned dimpled smile, reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear.
"Don't. Please," she whispers, blinking rapidly against the tears threatening to gather and spill.
"Regina, I don't care if you don't feel up to going out tonight; it's okay. I'm not interested in dating the restaurant, I'm interested in you."
"You have remarkably poor taste," she jibes with a watery laugh.
"You wound me," he gasps, splaying a hand dramatically against his chest. "I have excellent taste, thank you very much."
"Robin—" she sighs.
"We've been over this, Regina, spoons and all. So you don't feel like going out tonight, so what? We can stay in. I can cook us dinner, or we can order takeout and you can stay curled up on the couch in your pajamas. I don't care what we do, I just want to spend some time with you; something more substantial than the 5 minutes in the morning where we wave to each other and act like there is nothing else going on," he argues.
"Hey, I like the wave. It's a little bright spot in my day," she sasses back before she can stop herself. It's not until he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, grinning at her with a knowing look, that she realizes what she's admitted. "Oh don't look so smug about it."
"Me? Smug? Never." He jokes before sobering slightly, "In all seriousness, we don't have to go out tonight, I'm happy to cook. I read this article about only eating certain foods to keep inflammation down—"
"I'm going to stop you right there," she says, holding a hand up to silence him. "While it's sweet to know that you apparently spent some time trolling Google looking for things about my illness, I can guarantee you there is no 'miracle cure' for lupus, and there is no 'autoimmune protocol diet' that works or that I haven't already tried. Don't you think if it was something as simple as 'add more salads and avoid gluten' I would have already done it? Don't you think I want to be as healthy and as functional as possible for my son? For myself?" She challenges, trying and failing to keep the irritation out of her tone.
"I didn't mean anything by it Regina, I just thought—"
"No, you didn't think," she snaps before he can even finish the sentence.
"Now wait a minute, that's not fair," he counters, folding his arms across his chest, suddenly guarded. "I was only trying to help. I thought if I did a little research I could maybe find something to make things better, to make things a bit easier for you."
"You thought you could find a way to fix me." She pauses after saying it, waiting for him to try and deny it, but he doesn't. His eyes go wide for a moment, realization dawning in their blue depths, and the reality that yes, he wanted to fix her, just like everyone else, stings worse than anything he could have said. "I don't need you to fix me, Robin. I'm not broken." She turns and starts clomping down the stairs with her cane. It's not easy to make a dramatic exit when you have a slightly tilted gait, but she's going to try her damndest to get back across the street with at least a bit of dignity.
"Regina, wait," he calls, jogging down the steps and cutting her off half way down the drive. "I know you aren't," he fumbles, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "God, I'm cocking this all up."
She doesn't say anything, she just raises her eyebrows expectantly and waits.
"Look, I know I'm not getting this quite right, but you have to give me a chance," he pleads. "I'm going to make mistakes, but I'll learn from them and eventually I'll get it right. But in order for me to do that, you have to give me the chance to, instead of defensively blocking me out from the start."
"Do you have any idea how difficult this was for me?" she asks, barely above a whisper.
"What? Cancelling a date?" he replies flippantly.
"No. Admitting that something was wrong," she says, looking him in the eyes. "It's hard for me to let people see me this way, for me to show people when I am having a bad day, but I trusted you and respected you enough to come over here and tell you in person, to let you see. This isn't going away, Robin. This is part of me."
"I get that. All I'm asking is that you give me a chance to know this part of you too, so I can learn what you need." He pushes that stray strand of hair behind her ear again, his fingers lingering a little longer than necessary, his thumb ghosting along the swell of her cheek. "Can you at least think about it?"
She can't bring herself to say anything, so she just nods before weaving around him and staggering the rest of the way home. She needs time to let the instinctual agitation she's cultivated from years of correcting people who think they know better than her about her own illness simmer down. But once the adrenaline drains out of her and she's left with the empty exhaustion that always rises in the wake of this kind of fight; she thinks.
She thinks about what Robin asked for, about all the things he said, and she realizes that she hasn't given him a chance. She's spent so many years building barriers that she's forgotten how to let people in. She's spent so much time taking care of herself and everything else that she can't remember what it's like to ask for help, to be vulnerable, to let people see her and know her at her weakest points; what it's like to give them an opportunity to offer support. Robin was right, he hasn't been given a fair chance, mostly because she's forgotten what's it's like to give one and not be let down. It's a realization that lingers, settling at the forefront of her mind, refusing to be ignored.
She spends the remainder of the day resting, nestled comfortably in a cocoon of blankets with her heating pad until the searing pain in her joints mellows into a bearable ache. By early evening she's feeling a bit better, less drained and irritable, but it leaves a sinking knot of uncertainty and guilt settled in her stomach; she needs to make things right with Robin. She changes into a warmer, more presentable outfit, applies a light dusting of makeup, grabs a couple of beers and heads out to the porch swing. Hopefully he's still willing to give her chance, even after her spectacular display of temper that morning, but there's only one way to find out.
...
Robin sees her from across the street, the light from the living room shining through the blinds and bathing her in a warm amber glow as she sways back and forth on the porch swing. She's changed out of what she had on earlier; now she's wearing that cream sweater, the soft cable-knit one that looks like fluffy folds of marshmallow against the honey olive of her complexion and his fingers itch to curl around the hemline, to feel the contrast of the cozy fabric against the silk of her skin.
He should stop staring and go back inside, but he can't tear his eyes away, and she must sense it, must feel the weight of his gaze because she flattens her foot, braces and halts the swing instead of pushing off with a graceful point as she's been doing. She stops, and she stares back at him lifting her hands, a bottle in each, and she holds one out in his direction, tipping her head in an offering question.
What man alive, what person alive, could turn down that kind of invitation?
He smiles and nods, holding a finger up to let her know he'll be over in a minute. He steps inside to swap his slippers for a comfy pair of trainers and he grabs the blanket off the back of the couch —it's starting to get cold and he'd hate for her to be chilly—then he snags his keys from the counter, locks the door, and jogs across the street.
She's swinging again as he walks up, on leg dangling from the end of the swing, catching the floorboards and pushing off in a slow, easy pattern, but she stops as she sees him walking up the stairs.
"Hi," she breathes, a soft blush tinting her cheeks. She's adorable and suddenly shy, it makes him want to curl around her even more, to wrap her in his arms until she knows there's nowhere he'd rather be than snugly by her side.
"Hi," he answers. "May I join you?"
"Please." She scoots to the side, making a bit more room for him to sit beside her.
"I brought a blanket, it should be big enough to share, if you want?"
"I was starting to get a bit cold."
He takes that as a yes, unfolding the blanket and draping it across their laps as he sits on the swing, tucking the edge around her hips, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary.
Once he's settled she hands him the bottle she'd enticed him over with and he laughs when he reads the label. "Pumpkin Ale? Really?"
"What? It's delicious," she smirks, lips wrapping around the mouth of her bottle so she can take a sip.
"You have a pumpkin obsession."
"Oh just hush and drink your beer," she snips, taking another quick swig to hide her smirk.
"This is not beer. This is fall flavored swill," he snarks back, chuckling when she gasps and bumps him with her shoulder. "What? It is!"
"Just try it." She rolls her eyes, leaning further into his side from where she shoved him. He lifts his arm and drapes it along the back of the swing to give her more room and she burrows into him, seeking the extra warmth.
"Fine," he smiles, resisting the urge to press a kiss to the top of her head. She's so close, cuddled up to him beneath the blanket as they rock slowly back and forth with the rhythmic push and release of their feet against the floorboards.
He takes a tentative sip of the overly sweet-smelling liquid masquerading as beer, prepared for the worst, but it's surprisingly not bad. There's a soft, hoppy bitterness laced with the warmth of cinnamon and nutmeg, finished with the autumnal depth of sweet, earthy pumpkin. He takes a fuller sip, savoring the taste a bit more, when he feels her head shift, tilting up to watch him.
"Well?" She grins, biting her bottom lip as she waits for the answer she already knows is coming.
"It's not too bad."
"Told you." She smiles, a bright, toothy smile and he wants to lean down and kiss it from her lips, to see if pumpkin beer tastes better sipped from her mouth instead of the bottle, but he doesn't want to push her. So, he just takes another swallow of his drink.
This sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching as the sky darkens and the street lights blink to life, casually sipping their beers until they're half empty, and warming slightly in their hands.
She breaks the silence first, staring into the top of her bottle as she says, "So, I thought we could talk."
"Okay." His mouth goes dry, no one ever wants to hear those words, and he has no idea where this conversation is going to go, so he takes a sip of his beer, hoping it will bring some moisture back to the desert that is his mouth before he asks, "What did you want to talk about?"
She sits up then, separating away from where she has been pressed against his side. She looks nervous all of a sudden, skittish, as she takes a deep drink from her beer, almost emptying it.
"I thought we could talk about," she pauses, sucking in a breath that she releases on a heavy sigh. "I thought we could talk about us."
"Us?" He asks, with a shocked raise of his eyebrows. That's the last thing he expected. He swallows the rest of his beer, chugging it down hoping to settle the nerves suddenly churning through his stomach. "Oh. Okay."
She plucks the empty bottle from his fingers, leaning over to set it in the window sill along with her own. When she turns back her expression has completely changed; she's open, cracked at the seams and split wide, baring herself to him with tear brimmed eyes and fearful anticipation. She's expecting him to run; the stiffness in her limbs, the straight, rigid line of her spine betrays the impact she's bracing herself for, but her eyes are pleading with him not to go.
"I know. I know it's not easy. It's not fair to ask, to expect, to—" she hiccups on an intake of breath, her eyes clouding over as she starts to drift away from him, folding into the dark place he's seen drape over her too many times. This time, he grabs on and refuses to let her slip away.
He hauls her against him, one hand tangling in her hair as the other anchors around her waist and he kisses the words from her mouth. For a moment she stiffens in his arms, and he starts to pull back, thinking he read things wrong, again, that his momentary impulse has cocked everything up, but the second he withdraws she chases his lips, fusing their mouths back together with a soft whimper as she melts into him.
It's sloppy and raw, the angle isn't quite right, but that's not important. He wants her to feel, to drown in the affection he has that he can't quite put into words. He softens his hold on her, grasping hands molding into a soft caress, folding her into his arms with soothing passes along her spine and fingers scratching softly at the base of her skull until he feels the tension spool out of her. She wraps her arms around his waist, pressing as close as she can while she drags her lips over his again and again, languid and soft and settled.
And when she pulls back, quick breath panting across his skin, she's still there, open and present and his, and he knows he'll do whatever he can to keep her there, to chase her darkness, to hold her hand, and steal her fears from her lips, for as long as he possibly can.
Hello everyone,
First off, I would like to thank you all for your support, for reading and leaving comments or sending messages, I appreciate it so much. Secondly, this is going to be the last update for a while. I am currently in the process of finishing my PhD and it's quite stressful at the moment, so I need to focus on that for now and come back to Spoons once I have submitted. Hopefully I've left things in a good place so you have something nice to hold on to in the meantime.
All the best,
Em