He'd heard it before – when he was young, from his father. If you ever leave me, it'll be the last thing you do. Still, he's unprepared to hear the words on Regina's lips.

His grip tightens, his teeth grind.

He can feel the blood thumping in his veins for the second time today, but this time for entirely different reasons.

"Did he tell you that?" The dark anger of his voice is unexpected, even to him.

She's been looking down, but she glances up now, her face drawn, brows just barely pinched. Like she's going for that careful blankness that protects her most days, but can't quite find it.

And then her chin ticks up a half centimeter and she says plainly, "Yes." Her voice doesn't shake, but it's low. "He's a powerful man, and he keeps me on a tight leash. If I try to run, I won't make it far. He'll find me. And he'll kill me."

He won't. Robin is certain of that – will make certain of that – and for a moment, this moment, here in this hallway, the chaos of the morning seems very far away. If it wasn't for the grey tinge of her hair, the dust she keeps blinking out of her lashes, he could almost pretend it had been a bad dream. But it wasn't, it's very real. Chaos and destruction and death have been hot on their heels all morning, and he'll be damned if he will let her walk back into danger now that he's only just ushered her away from it.

"Not if you're already dead," he tells her. "Regina, please."

It's so obvious to him – the slim, dreadful escape hatch they've uncovered through happenstance. A way to ease her suffering.

"Robin, people are dead back there. Real people, with loved ones who are sitting at home hoping and praying and waiting for them to come home, and they never will, and I am alive, I can't just—"

"And what will you be going home to, hmm?" His brows lift, challenging her, his grip (lighter now, looser now, but still firm) turning her wrist lightly, so those deep finger-bruises that make his stomach slick and oily are pointed more clearly up into the dim light of the stairwell. "Is this the comforting embrace you want to return to tonight?"

Too far. He pushed too far. Her face shuts down – there's the blank expression, a bit of heat in her eyes, her mouth tight as she yanks her arm out of his grasp (he lets her go easily) and reaches to fasten the button at her wrist again.

"I'm not having this conversation with you, not right now," she mutters, and Robin wants to fight her on it, truly he does, but she adds a weary, "I just want to get inside and figure out what the hell is going on."

And he can't begrudge her that – he wants that, too. And he wants to get a clean change of clothes for the both of them, get all of that dust and ash out of their hair, off their skin.

So when she turns without another word to climb the stairs, Robin follows.

They can talk about it again later – they will talk about it again later.

In the meantime, they need answers, and shelter.

So they make their way to the fourth floor, and he guides her to the door of apartment 407.

Robin knocks, and the door swings open, Neal standing there in sweatpants and a rumpled t-shirt. His eyes widen at the sight of them and he blurts a stunned, "Holy shit. Holy shit," and then he's stepping back and letting the door open wide.

"Get in, come in," he invites without so much as a hello.

Neal gets them both something clean to wear, something strong to drink, and they sit on his beat up old couch for what feels like hours watching the news. Watching at all happen again, and again.

Robin tries to call home, to get word back to Will and Roland that he's safe, but the phones are out. The lines are all jammed.

Regina is quiet. She sits next to him in clothes borrowed from the woman who lives next door – yoga pants and a tank top, and one of Neal's hoodies to hide the bruises on her arm.

She's quiet, but at least she's here. Here, and safe, and whole.

She closes her eyes as the television shows their office building falling to rubble one more time, and he tells himself that here, and safe, and whole are enough for now. More than.

More than so many other people can claim.

He'll ask her again, later—tonight. He'll ask her to run, to let him help her run. But right now, it's enough to slide his arm around her shoulders, to feel her sink into his side, to feel the breath in her lungs as she inhales deeply and exhales hard.

Right now, just being alive together is plenty.