That she's not alone when she walks into the hotel's fitness room doesn't come as a terrible surprise to Regina – it's not that early in the day, even for a weekend, even for Las Vegas. Who she finds there, however, is somewhat of a shock.

"I didn't expect to see you before noon," she teases Kathryn dryly, one eyebrow arched as she strolls up to the treadmill next to the one her cousin is occupying. Considering how much they'd had to drink last night, how drunk everyone had been by the time Regina left them at the table, she's surprised the bride-to-be is even awake right now, much less steadily walking the belt. Then again, she is moving pretty slowly, a little pale and maybe a bit sweatier than she ought to be for the pace she's keeping. "What are you doing here?"

The look she gives Regina is one of vague misery. "I think I'm dying," she declares, and Regina can't help it. She laughs.

"A feeling I know well." She's thinking of yesterday, of her pitching stomach and throbbing head, as she steps onto her own machine, depositing her water bottle in the holder and matching Kathryn's gait – for now. "You had quite a night."

Kathryn lets out a grunt of disgusted agreement.

"I either need more booze, or no booze ever again."

"A word of advice," Regina suggests. "Next time, stick to something with a lower liquor-to-mixer ratio than Long Islands."

"Yeah," Kathryn groans, shifting her grip to brace against the hand rests. "Or stay away from your husband's friends. They can drink."

It still sends her stomach swooping – her husband – and Regina wonders if there will ever come a time it won't. If they go through with this, that is.

"Believe me, I know." Regina gives a half-heated roll of the eyes and lifts her left hand, wiggling her fingers pointedly. "I have the unfortunate jewelry to prove it."

"I can't believe you got married," Kathryn sighs, and Regina blows out an irritated breath. If they're going to have this conversation again, she's leaving. But Kathryn's voice softens as she says, "I thought you'd given up on ever doing that again, after Leo." She says his name like it's a dirty word she's afraid someone will overhear, a low mumble, her glance shifting askance. It's the aversion that raises Regina's hackles more than the mention of the man himself.

She punches her pace a tick higher, and then one more, before answering. "I had. I have."

Kathryn increases her pace ever-so-slightly to keep up. "And yet, here you are."

"Not by choice, I assure you," Regina mutters, focusing her gaze on the TV screen in her machine. It's playing some ridiculous music video – something old, 1980s old, fuzzy around the edges with bad hair and too much makeup. "Being someone's wife is the last thing I want."

"Then why are you doing it?" Kathryn questions, her breath a little shallow now. She must not have been here long before Regina arrived, or maybe having an impromptu workout buddy is making the whole prospect of running hungover less daunting. "I've been trying to figure it out, Regina, and I just don't get it."

"You know my mother."

"Yeah, I know Aunt Cora can be a bitch, but–"

"But you don't know my mother," Regina finishes, interrupting Kathryn. "I was plastered when I called her. I don't even remember what I said, that's how drunk I was. And she told everyone. Do you think she was just sharing the good news? That she was excited to have a son-in-law?" Another click higher, a quicker slap of sneaker on treadmill, a more insistent rush of blood through her veins. "She did it to humiliate me. I'm almost forty years old, and my mother just skywrote my drunken mistakes for the whole family. And I'm not putting up with it this time. This time, I'm in control."

"You're doing something you swore you never would because of her; how is that being in control?"

Regina shoots her a glare, jaw clenching before she looks back to big hair and blue eyeshadow and thinks that, well... Kathryn's sort of right. Is committing to this farce of a marriage just letting her mother control her behavior, again? Letting Cora push her into doing something she doesn't want – is in fact vehemently against on principle, and precisely because of the last time her mother pushed her into a marriage she didn't want. But she was young, then, and naïve and grieving, she hadn't been thinking straight. Now... Now, she's... Well, she'd been drunk when she made the decision, hungover when she decided to stick with it, and now she's sober and well-rested, and confused.

And Kathryn is still waiting for an answer.

"It's only for a year," she tells her finally. "One year, and then we're going to divorce. This won't be a real marriage. It's a legal one, but..." Regina grasps her water, unscrews the cap. "I get to keep my life, my place, my autonomy. It's not the same."

She takes a deep gulp of cool water, but it does little to soothe the heat of anxiety in her belly.

"So it's all for show?" Kathryn pants lightly, sounding unconvinced. "Last night is a little fuzzy, but it looked like you two actually like each other."

Regina drops her water bottle back into place with a resolute thunk.

"You were drunk."

There's a particular haughty tone that only Kathryn is capable of, a know-it-all archness that colors her words as she says, "I know what I saw. And I wasn't that drunk when the two of you disappeared for half an hour."

It's an implication Regina doesn't appreciate, so she shakes her head and insists, "We were talking. That's all."

"In the bathroom?"

"It was quiet."

"Mmhmm."

Regina blows out an annoyed breath and admits, "Yes. Fine. I like him – as a person. I wouldn't saddle myself with him for a year if I didn't. And maybe things look..." Probably pretty bad, she thinks. Probably pretty real. But that's largely Robin's fault. She punches the treadmill up a setting, mouth pulled into a scowl. "Nothing happened in the bathroom. We were just talking. He was... worried about me. He's a romantic; I'm his wife. Even if it's only temporary, he intends to treat me the way he thinks a wife should be treated. Concern, and support, and understanding, and all that garbage."

Regina colors the words with her usual derision for Robin's sentimentality, and it draws a sound of amused recognition from Kathryn. "How terrible."

"It's annoying," Regina huffs. "And not real."

"For him or for you?"

Another dark glare shoots its way to Regina's left. "For both of us. All the play-acting in the world won't make this any less a mockery of the very institution he's claiming to uphold."

"Still, it's seductive." No haughtiness now, just a curious edge of suggestion. A leading sort of lingering over the words. "Especially for someone with your history."

Regina turns her head so fast she nearly upsets her balance, brows stitched tight and mouth pursed for a moment before she bites, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You had your heart crushed, Regina," Kathryn says with enough pity that Regina feels the overwhelming compulsion to drive a fist right into her nose. The only thing that keeps her from actually doing it is the mortal sin that would be maiming the bride a week before pictures. "And then... Leo. And you haven't let yourself get into a serious relationship since. Hell, I'm not sure you've ever gone past a third date – not that you've told me about, anyway. I don't think anyone would fault you for wanting a year of affection. I wouldn't have. If you'd told me."

Regina is sure if she was looking, Kathryn would be all sympathetic eyes and understanding smiles, but she's staring stubbornly at her TV again, teeth clenched, blood pumping for reasons beyond the pace of her jog.

"That's not why I'm doing this."

She jabs her finger hard into the button that increases her incline until it's something that will get her thighs burning in short order.

"There's nothing wrong with–"

"I'm doing it so I don't have to spend next weekend being paraded around for public humiliation. So that Mother doesn't get to run the show again," Regina pants, beginning to feel the healthy strain of muscles warming and flexing, and the considerably less healthy surge of irritation bordering on temper. It makes her stumble over her words, makes her sound clumsy and flustered. "I am doing it for – for – for entirely practical reasons, not stupidly sentimental ones. He is the one who is stupid and sentimental, not me."

"Mm," Kathryn says, not convinced.

"Kathryn," Regina mutters warningly.

"I didn't say anything," her cousin shrugs, but her 'not saying anything' has said plenty, and Regina's guts are all twisted up in knots. She's not doing this because she craves kindness. She isn't. She's not that pathetic, not that weak, not that needy. She's doing this because it salvages her pride, and that's all.

And she doesn't need convincing of that, she does not, and Kathryn doesn't deserve it. So Regina tells her sharply, "Just shut up and run," and then punches her speed up until she's breathless enough that talking is out of the question.

It's a pity there's not a speed that can outrun her thoughts.

.::.

An hour and a half later, she's sweated, and showered, and is in the process of making herself presentable for the public when she gets a text that makes her brows shoot nearly to her hairline.

She's amazed, really.

Shocked and amazed that with how much they'd all had to drink last night her friends even managed to remember they had made brunch plans with Robin and his guys, much less actually made it up in time to attend. (Kathryn had the looming threat of a too-tight wedding dress to inspire her early morning workout, but she'd claimed the others were enviously dead to the world when she'd crept out that morning.) But here it is, noon, and Regina is staring at a text from Elsa asking what time exactly they're supposed to be meeting and where.

So much for the assumption that she'd be spending another day practically on her own – or at least away from the women she came here with.

They hadn't gotten around to planning such specifics as time and venue before Robin had showed up last night, so Regina doesn't really have an answer to her friend's text. But this brunch had been Robin's idea, and it requires participation from Robin's friends, so she flicks over to her contacts and clicks on the Ls to bring up Locksley.

It's not there.

Regina's brow furrows. He has to be there, how can he not be there? She was talking to him just last night, he was there, and then–

Oh, for fuck's sake.

The realization that she'd left her phone in her purse – and therefore out of her possession – for a good portion of the night hits Regina with a flare of annoyance, and she abandons Contacts for Messages in the hope that their latest text thread is still there and she'll be able to figure out what idiotic moniker her friends must have decided to change Robin's name to.

And then she makes a mental note to change her passcode to something Emma Swan won't be able to figure out.

When she sees the name they'd chosen for him (Mr. Hottie McBritishpants-Mills) she snorts a rather unladylike laugh, and is tempted to leave it that way. But then she runs the risk of him somehow seeing it and thinking she's endorsed this proclamation of him as a hottie (which, if she's being objective, isn't exactly incorrect, but she's plagued by a constant internal tug-of-war between wanting to let him be exactly what he's offered to be for her and wanting to bite and scratch and push him as far away as possible), and she can't have that. So she edits his contact, but indulges a little bit of smug satisfaction in changing his name to Robin Mills instead of Robin Locksley, because if she's facing a possible year stuck with his name he can at least wear hers for a while, even if it's meaningless. Even if it's just her being petty.

And then she taps the call button, and waits.

The phone rings, and it rings, and she wonders if he's still asleep. They hadn't gotten in until late – it had been after two-thirty when he'd escorted her to the door of her hotel room, their fingers linked loosely as they'd walked the streets. The dancing had been meant as a distraction from whatever had happened between Robin and August (the details of which he'd been utterly unwilling to share, aside from a grumble that August was "being a right git" and would "get over it once he starts suffocating from having had his head lodged so firmly up his arse"), but it had ended up being oddly cathartic for her, too.

Or maybe cathartic isn't the right word, but it had been… nice. Freeing. With sex off the table (and she's trying to trust that he means that, she really, truly is), she'd been able to shimmy and shake her hips and press up against him without worrying about leading him on, or where things might end up. She'd been able to just… be. To just relax – something she'd been in desperate need of for a while, if she's honest with herself.

Not that she needs him – or anything he provides her, aside from a convenient way to save face with her family–

The thought is cut off as he answers his phone on the fourth ring – and then drops it, if the clattering sound and ripe accenting cursing are any indication. He's breathless when he finally greets, "Hi. How're you?"

"Am I interrupting something?" she asks, brow lifting even though he's not there to see it.

"I was in the shower when I heard the phone ring," he tells her, and that makes sense. There's a beat and then, "What did you think I was doing?"

Regina shrugs. "I hadn't given it much thought. You sounded winded."

"I slipped on the bloody bathroom floor, and nearly fell arse over tit. Came a hair from cracking my skull open on the door before I caught myself," he admits, and Regina frowns, the thought of him banged up and bleeding making her feel decidedly unsettled. "And I didn't want you to go to voicemail."

The blinks away the thought of sticky red and bruising, and asks, "How did you know it was me?"

"Oh. Um." He clears his throat, and then admits, "I gave you a ringtone."

She smiles, can't help it. That's sweet. And a little creepy. "After one day?"

"I figured you weren't likely to call for a chat," he says. "If you're calling, it's important. And I told you, you're a priority for me. That's what all this means, if you agree to it."

If she agrees to it. She's going to have to decide, one way or another, and soon. Today. She heads back to Santa Monica tonight, and if she's going to sell marriage next weekend, she'll need the women she's here with to be on board with whatever their story is. It'd be too much to hope nobody at the wedding will as for eye-witness accounts of the Surprise Marriage of the Century. The thought has her stomach doing spastic, angry cartwheels. She has a commitment to make, or not, and she... she'd like more time. A day or two, a week or two, to make a decision about something like this.

"Did you need something?" Robin asks her, and she realizes she's been silent for longer than is comfortable.

With a quick clearing of her throat, she explains, "Brunch. We never decided when and where, and the girls are asking."

They make plans to meet at one of the restaurants attached to her hotel, settling on a time that will give everyone a chance to wash off their hangovers and glug down a suitable amount of coffee before having to mingle, and Regina reminds him to bring her contacts.

They don't linger on the phone – he's dripping wet, after all, and she has a head of hair half-straightened and half wavy, her flat iron awaiting her on the bathroom counter. She's reaching for it again when her phone buzzes and she glances down to see a text from her mother: Regina, please call me today. This avoidance is childish and I'd like to discuss this man suddenly married to my only daughter.

She stares and stares at the message, feeling the familiar clash of obligation, guilt, and rebellion that she always feels when her mother makes her displeasure known. Her attention stills at last on My only daughter and sharp anger obliterates all other emotion. She thinks of her sister and flips her phone over with more force than she probably should, the screen hitting the counter with a sharp smack.

Mother can wait another day.

.::.

Robin is running late. Not by much, and he thinks he should get some credit for managing to get his men roused and ready in even this amount of time considering the state they'd been in, but regardless - they're five minutes late and he's irritated by the delay.

"Isn't that them?" John asks, pointing to a group of women not far off as they walk into the second floor of the hotel complex.

Robin doesn't see Regina, so shakes his head, says, "No, I don't recognize–" and then, "Oh," and "yes."

Yes, John is right, that's them. Robin doesn't remember all their names, has been too consumed with the situation with Regina to retain such trivial details, but he knows Kathryn is the bride and she's hard to miss in her white t-shirt that is Bedazzled as such across the back. There are others, faces recognizable now as he takes a better look. The shorter woman with a cap of dark hair whose name he thinks started with M and was vaguely reminiscent of the nuns from his brief stint in Catholic schooling, and the taller, lankier blonde who he knows August had shown particular interest in (Emily? Emma?), a brunette with a shock of red hair – Ruby, he remembers. That one name he can recall (how could he not, with how besotted Peter is). Another blonde, and another brunette.

They're all familiar to him, but their names for some reason largely elude him, and he has the decency to feel just a little bit bad about it. Although in his defense, he hasn't spent considerable time with the other women of her party, not really. He can't be faulted for not remembering them all on first meeting, not with how much they'd already been drinking on Friday, and while he'd not been too terribly sloshed last night, he'd not spent much time with the group either. He and Regina had disappeared on their own, and then there'd been the row with August. (Something that has bubbled over into today – the other man electing not to brunch with the women they seem to have adopted as an extension of their group for the weekend now that it's day three of meeting up with them, whether by happenstance, selfish machinations, or advance planning – Robin knows he'll have to mend fences there somehow, but at the moment can't be arsed to deal with it – he has more important things on his mind.)

After that, she'd pulled him out onto the dance floor in short order, and he'd spent the rest of his evening trying valiantly not to pop a boner while she'd shimmied and ground against him, smelling of flowers and spice and sweat, in that snug dress, with her tempting curves and those curls he'd wanted to bury his hands in. It had been a good distraction, albeit one that limited their socializing – not that he'd complained, not one bit. And then the rest of them had buggered off, and they'd been alone again.

They'd danced a bit more, but the music wasn't all that good, and the ambience had been fairly terrible, so it hadn't been long before she'd turned in his arms, leaned in close and spoken loudly over the music, asking him to walk her back to her room. She'd been sober, but smiley, and breathless, happier than he'd ever seen her, her fingers twined loosely with his as they ambled the strip. He'd thought perhaps August was right, then, and that this was a terrible mistake, because a happy Regina Mills, it turns out, is a stunning Regina Mills. He'd not been able to take his eyes off her, hadn't wanted to take his hands off her – even if he was limited to just those five fingers linked with hers, it was a connection he'd been loathe to break. That didn't bode well for breaking other connections down the road.

And yet, here he is. Still every bit as committed to their farce of a marriage as he'd been when he suggested it (could it be?) only twenty-four hours ago. There's a sturdy rightness to the idea, one he cannot shake, and so he won't be the one to call it off. He won't be the one to offer her cover and then snatch it away, or to promise to stand by her only to walk off with no regard for how it might hurt her. He's made his commitment and he intends to uphold it; she'll choose how she will and that will be that.

Or perhaps she would if she was here, but as far as he can tell, she's not. Odd, considering this brunch was their arrangement.

"But I don't see..." he begins, trailing off and frowning at the bunch as he tries to spy Regina amongst them.

"Isn't that her, there, looking at her phone?" John asks, and Robin takes a second look at that last brunette.

Oh.

"Oh." He clears his throat a little, looks sheepish. "Yes."

"Well done, mate," Will teases. "Not able to recognize your bride when she's staring you right in the face. Your marriage is off to a smashing start."

The brunette is Regina, and it's plain to see that now – mortifyingly, she's the one whose face has been the most visible this entire time. But he can't be faulted for not immediately recognizing her, can he? Sure, he spent the better part of yesterday with her, but she was bare-faced and undone and casually dressed – and then party ready with her red dress and red lips and soft curls. Today, she's somewhere in between, standing there in snug white denim and a sleeveless top in lavender that looks like it'd be silky to the touch. Her hair has been tamed from the twisting waves he remembers from yesterday, is now sleek and straight, and drawn up into a ponytail, her face perfectly painted but not overdone. But it's the glasses that threw him off the most, he thinks. He should have expected as much, considering her lenses are in his pocket, and she'd surely not want to spend the rest of her weekend squinting. But the sight of her in her glasses is… well, to be honest, it's rather adorably fetching.

They're purple – her frames – not too outrageously so, but still a festive pop of color, one he wouldn't have expected. It's a little bit of whimsy that has him smiling even before she glances up and spies him. Their eyes lock and hold, and then she's turning away, alerting the rest of the women to their approaching presence.

.::.

He walks toward her with a smile – he and his friends – one of those belly-warming smiles of his, and she wants to say it annoys her, but it… doesn't. No, instead it makes something flutter in her chest and her belly swoop with adrenaline, Kathryn's words from earlier popping up like a rather rude Jack-in-the-box: Seductive...for someone with your history. He is, she's realized. She's… He… This is a terrible idea… but does she want it anyway? Does she just want… affection? Kindness? What he's promised her? Or is this really self-serving, is this really about Mother, is this– He's fast approaching, and all these questions have no answers, not right now anyway, so she shoves them down, away, back.

She presses her lips together to keep from smiling back at him, and steps forward a few paces, crossing the rest of the distance between them. He stops, face-to-face with her, his friends continuing on to join hers – and she says a silent prayer of thanks that they'd run into each other last night, all of them, because it eliminates the need for her and Robin to make introductions today.

So for a moment, they're alone. Or not really alone, but far enough from the others to have a sliver of privacy.

She holds her hand out to him, and says, "Lest you end up going home with them, I'll take those contacts now."

That smile becomes a deep-dimpled smirk, and he shoves his hand into his pocket, draws it back out and settles it over hers, the unmistakable plastic of her contacts case between their palms. His hand lingers there long enough for him to tell her, "I like the purple," before dropping away.

"I'm sure you like a lot of things," she mutters, already tucking the case into the zip pocket inside her purse for safekeeping.

He leans in, then, stage-whispering to her, "A simple thank you would suffice," and when she looks back up her eyes get caught in all that blue. Warm, and humorous, and maybe just a touch put-out. Her barb had maybe been… unnecessarily rude, she realizes. She's nervy, and it makes her snappy, and that's not his fault. It's hers.

Still, she can't bring herself to raise her voice above a whisper when she concedes, "Thank you."

"Not so hard, now was it?" he teases back, and there goes all that momentary goodwill. She feels her face twist into a scowl, her eyes rolling. She's been antsy all morning, has been feeling queasy with anxiety over this whole brunch idea – over the continuation of their marriage being an actual thing that real people know about, of it existing outside the safety of his hotel room or the dark and alcohol-soaked ambience of a nightclub. And that anxiety has her on-edge and short-fused. So when he reaches for her hand, weaves their fingers gently and squeezes, she nearly rips away from his grasp. But then he's asking her, "What's wrong? Other than the obvious," as though he genuinely wants to know.

"Nothing's wrong," she tells him, knee-jerk.

All he does is tilt his head at her, shifts his grip until his fingers are wrapped around hers instead of between, his thumb coasting tenderly across her knuckles, back and forth, and again, again.

"Are you sure?"

It's kind, and caring, and supportive, and she's weak and stupid and this is unfair to him, saddling him with all her issues just because she's too cowardly to put up with a weekend of abuse from her mother. She's lasted thirty-seven years, what's one week more? All little mortification won't kill her. Neither will a lot of it.

Regina takes a deep breath and lets it out, her gaze sliding toward their mingling friends.

"Maybe this isn't a good idea," she admits softly, a tiny bit of her gaining a fresh crack at the loss of something she doesn't even have yet. Something she hasn't even fully agreed to. Something she doesn't even need.

"Brunch?" he asks innocently.

Regina shakes her head and looks back at him. "All of it."

Robin nods, once, not an agreement, just gathering his thoughts. He doesn't let go of her hand.

"It's not too late to change your mind," he tells her softly, his thumb tickling whorls against her skin now.

"I'm not so sure about that," she tells him, annoyed at the tension in her voice. "We already told our friends." Kathryn knows the truth, knows the reasons why she's doing this, but only Kathryn, and she's fairly certain her cousin will keep her secrets. Especially now that she thinks this will be good for Regina – more disgusting words she's never heard. The rest of their friends, everyone else, they just think they're all insane. Because they are, this is.

"But just them," Robin points out, still even, still unruffled. She's envious and angry all at once. Why can't he be as bothered by all this as she is? "Just those few. If you want to call it off, we'll call it off. Explain it to them, and get the annulment." He loses just a shade of that unflappable calm as he mutters, "I'm sure August will be bloody relieved," and it makes the corner of her mouth tip up in something that must be a smirk, but it feels wrong on her face just now.

His voice goes steady again as he continues, "But that won't solve everything. You'll still have to face your mother, and tell her the truth. Correct everyone's misinformed opinion of what's happened. More than just our friends will know." He pauses there, and Regina's stomach twists violently with the thought of a hundred and fifty wedding guests being regaled with the tale of No-I'm-not-actually-married-it's-a-really-funny-story in a week's time. Maybe she's not as prepared to endure mortification as she'd like to believe, if the sudden pitching nausea is any indication. Robin gives her hand a squeeze and adds, "And they'll forget, in time."

"Not all of them," she murmurs, her free hand pressing to her belly and rubbing absently. "Not likely. Mother will be sure to make it memorable."

"So what do you want?" he asks earnestly, swinging their hands lightly. "What do you need, Regina?"

"I don't know," she sighs, exasperated, her hand jerking in his grasp, but he doesn't relinquish his hold, and she doesn't fight it. She does cast her eyes to the cement flooring and confess in hushed tones, "I can't think straight today. I've never been this humiliated in my life – and that's saying something. And I feel like an idiot, because why should I even care what people – what she– I'm thirty-seven years old." She shakes her head and exhales heavily, and Robin lets go of her hand, but only to raise his palms to her biceps. She tenses, a reflex born out of months that left purple bruises and rattled teeth, and Robin's hands lift away just as soon as they've landed.

He murmurs an apology, a sincere one, and it soothes something in her – the fact that he's remembered so quickly what she doesn't like, and that he looks so contrite at having forgotten in the first place. But it was a gentle touch, a soft one, not one meant to hurt or hold, and his hands are still hovering close enough that she can feel the phantom heat of him against her skin. So she shakes her head and murmurs, "It's fine. I'm just edgy today; you can touch, it's okay."

He does, his palms warm against arms gone chilled from robust air conditioning, and the heat seeps into her like a balm. Her eyes drop shut to savor the sensation as his hands stroke gently up and down.

"There's no shame in wanting to spare yourself embarrassment, love."

"It's childish," she insists, "Stupid."

You stupid girl, she hears in her head – Mother might as well be right next to her, whispering poison into her ear, Only someone as foolish as you could end up married to a stranger in Las Vegas of all places. How terribly banal and pedestrian. This would never have happened if you'd just–

But then there's Robin, banishing the spectre of Cora, with his voice like whiskey, smooth and low, "It's not. It's self-preservation, that's all. You're allowed to take care of yourself."

Dark lashes flutter open at that, full lips drawing into a deeper frown. She'd been told that before, in therapy, after Leo. That she's allowed self-care. Is Robin self-care? Is this taking care of herself, or is this taking advantage? Or is it running? Letting Mother run her life? Is Kathryn right about that? If she just had more time, she could weigh all the options, could think clearly enough to determine a sane course of action, could work out the answers to all these questions that are circling around and around in her head. But she doesn't have time, she has right now. She has Zelena waiting on her word to make a phone call, and more fucking congratulatory texts coming in, and Robin standing in front of her trying to be impartial. She thinks? Or is he trying to sway her? Is this– Is she–

She's short of breath.

She can feel it suddenly, that feeling, all too familiar and crawling up her spine, anxiety tightening its grip around her throat, and she brings a hand to her chest, presses her palm hard there and swallows heavily. Not now, not like this, please not now…

"Damnit," she hisses, her voice strangled and tight, and Robin's hands go still against her arms.

"Are you alright?"

She doesn't answer, too busy trying to talk herself out of the rising tide of a panic attack, but it's a futile effort. It always is.

He doesn't seem to need her response, though, not if his is any indication. He's all soft tones and soothing murmurs, assuring her, "I'm right here," and, "Just breathe slowly…"

Dark eyes meet blue, and she feels naked but somehow steady, his palms an anchor. She gives a hint of a nod and tries to breathe deeply, to breathe slowly, but air still comes in ragged and shallow and catches in her throat. Fuck. Damnit. Everyone is watching, they have to be, they must be – her gaze flits to the side, but she'd need eyes in the back of her head to see their friends right now.

Still, he catches the movement, he catches everything, is hyper aware of her, and it's unnerving and reassuring, both at the same time. "They're all talking," he tells her quietly, "They're not looking. Just breathe."

"I'm sorry." Her voice is thin, breathy. But he'll have none of it.

"Nothing to be sorry about," he tells her in that same gentle voice, and she thinks he'd be good with horses. Daniel had loved horses, had had that same gentle tone when they'd gone spooked. "You're overwhelmed; it's alright. Just breathe. There's no rush."

But "There is," she insists. "I go home tonight; we have to decide. I have to decide. We either sit down at that table as two people who are going to be married, or we sit down at that table and tell them the truth."

"Then we'll decide," he murmurs, thumbs stroking her skin. Her toes are tingling and the hand not pressed to her chest hangs like lead, but she can feel his thumbs, soft and light.

She can't breathe, rubs her own hand up and down her sternum in a vain attempt to force the muscles underneath to relax but it does no good, and they have to decide, and–

"Talk to me," he coaxes gently.

"I feel trapped," she blurts. Because she does, she is trapped. She is married, and stuck there. Again. She's trapped again, and her head is starting to feel like a balloon.

"You're not trapped," he tells her. "You're free to choose." The laugh that bubbles up out of her sounds manic, and she flushes with embarrassment and clenches her jaw tightly. "You are," he insists steadily. "You have all the control, Regina. You can go, right now. Or next week, or next month, or next year. Nothing is tying you to me, and I won't fight you. You're not trapped. This is your choice."

"But if I– People will– I can't control their–"

"You're right." His palms slide down, up, down, then settle again. "You can't control how people react, but you're in control of yourself."

Another choking laugh rasps out of her, and she can feel her skittering pulse, her skin feels hot, the back of her neck is sweating. "I can't even breathe, Robin. I can't control– I have no control– Why are you so fucking calm right now?"

"Because you're having a panic attack," Robin says plainly, "and you need me to be calm."

"But doesn't– Aren't you–?" She swallows heavily and tugs at the collar of her blouse. It's not tight around her neck, but she still feels stifled.

"It's only a year," he reminds, letting go of her arms then and reaching for her hand. She feels rudderless, all of a sudden. Adrift and unmoored. He focuses on the one hand, takes it in both of his and rubs his palms over either side, stroking fingers, and wrist, and back. "And we're not going to live together. It'll be like dating with tax breaks and no sex."

Her laugh then is genuine, if a bit strained, and she nods, nods again. Right. This isn't– this isn't a commitment, this isn't cause for panic. (She knows that the panic doesn't need a cause, that's not how panic attacks work, this is not a proportional response to the ring on her left hand, it's just a panic attack, she can get through a panic attack, she can, she will breathe again soon.)

"What if I went to the wedding," he suggests, and she frowns, shakes her head. What is he talking about? "Either way," he clarifies. "I'll go with you, no matter what. Or not go, if that's what you want. But I can go as your plus-one. As the man you married on accident last weekend, but discovered was terribly charming and devilishly handsome, and so you brought him as your date, the first of perhaps many dates." He winks at her, and she rolls her eyes, an impulse she's incredibly grateful for because it's incongruous with her panic and maybe that means it's easing a little. "I'll tell the story of how we met, and how I charmed the pants off you–"

"Maybe leave that part out," she mutters, and he laughs, only just then realizing the literal reality of what he'd said, apparently.

"Right," he chuckles, "We won't talk about your lack of pants. And your mother can go get stuffed." He's still rubbing her hand, and it's not the anchor that his grip was, but it's soothing in a different way. He really would be good with horses… Or small children (he has a small child, she remembers, a fact that does nothing to ease her riotous emotions). "Or," he continues, "I can go as your husband. As the man you've been quietly seeing for months, who loves you and stands by you, and we can tell everyone how we met when I hired you to redo Roland's room, and how I proposed in some terribly romantic way, and how you've been hiding me in a cupboard under the stairs whenever your mother comes."

It gets him another laugh, and she's suddenly grateful, so grateful that he's standing there, that he's talking, that he's probing for ways to disarm her, to loosen the grip of her body's sudden rebellion. He smiles at her, his palms covering more ground now, coasting over her forearm as well.

"Either way, you won't face the firing squad alone. I made a vow to you, darling, and whether it's for the next few days, or the next year, I will be your partner in this." His touch spreads to her other arm now, too, then slides, up, up, up, and comes back to rest at her biceps. "Just tell me how."

It's another option – another path toward honesty, a step away from marriage. A middle ground between wife (which has her breaking out in a cold sweat every other time she hears it) and complete drunken idiot (her mother will never let her live this down, no matter what). He could do it, she thinks. Robin could take a room by storm, show up on her arm, and make this whole weekend sound like a terribly funny story. He'd leave out the panic attacks, and the arguments, and make the whole thing into a comedy, and she'd laugh, self-deprecating, with hot cheeks and too much champagne, and her family would move on. She would move on.

Her mother would not.

Cora would still be there with her snide remarks, her belittling side comments, and she never did react well to public shows of one-upmanship. She'd come after Regina later, with words like fists. She'd fume and plot and then she'd annihilate her in private. Regina can handle that, she's handled it all her life.

But she might not have to this time. This time, she could have a… partner.

She's been staring at a spot on his chest, on the point of his v-neck collar, but her gaze flicks up to his again now. He's concerned but still calm, so calm, his hands warm on her biceps, she can feel the heat dampening between his skin and hers, and something just… clicks. She draws a deeper breath, her chest loosening infinitesimally, her tensed muscles relaxing slightly under his touch.

She's safe. She feels safe. The panic is still there, but with Robin's gaze steady on hers, it's more bearable. He's going to stand there until she's okay, until they find a solution that works for her, she realizes, and it has her swallowing heavily. Is this what support feels like? Or maybe trust? (Seductive, indeed.)

It's an odd feeling, one that filters through her like a drug, makes her bones dissolve and take much of her tension with them.

It's shockingly easy all of a sudden to give him an answer: "Let's do it."

.::.

Robin's brows lift slightly, a little bubble of dangerous hope rising in his chest.

"Which?" he asks her, and when she answers him with A year, he can't help the way the corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk. "Alright then," he says, rubbing his hands on her gooseflesh-covered arms again, willing warmth into her. "A year it will be."

She nods, and breathes deep, exhales slowly, and he can see the way she's finally settling, her anxiety receding, although it doesn't ease completely. Her brows draw together, and she asks, "Do you really think we can pull this off? What if we can't? What if–" She shakes her head suddenly, her hands lifting to grasp at his arms. "I don't believe in marriage, Robin."

"That's alright," he shrugs, telling her, "I believe enough for the both of us." It's just the right thing to say, the final thing that snaps her out of the state she's been in, and suddenly she's the woman he woke with yesterday, scoffing and glaring (less heat this time, more affection) and telling him he's a ridiculous sap.

"I am. But I'm your ridiculous sap now," he reminds, her laugh in response a little thin around the edges. Too soon, maybe?

"This year is going to try my patience, isn't it?" she mutters, and Robin grins, then chuckles, fingers sliding to grip her own again and let them dangle between them. A connection, but he hopes not one that will stifle.

"Probably," he concedes. "But I'm sure the feeling will be mutu–"

He's interrupted by a shout of "Oi!" both their heads whipping toward the sound. "Can the happy couple stop making moon eyes over there and come join the rest of us? Some of us would like to get a move on our daytime drinking."

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to interrupt the grown-ups when they're talking?" Robin calls back to Will, ignoring his Not that I can recall, and adding, "We'll be there in a moment."

But Regina squeezes his hands and then disentangles herself from them, assuring him, "It's alright. Let's go."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah." She gives him a little smile, her fingers sliding into her pockets and rooting there. "You're right. It's just a few people, and if we stick to this, we can keep it like that. It's better this way. And I'm free to go whenever I like, so there's no danger in it."

There's not, and he wants her to feel light, to feel free, so he fixes her with his best smirk, and teases, "Too right, Mrs. Mills-Locksley."

Regina lets out a scoff, her eyes sliding heavenward, and she turns toward their waiting friends, muttering as she goes, "Nevermind, I want a divorce."

The smile spread across her face as she'd said it has him chuckling, unbothered by her empty threats as he follows dutifully after his wife.