Here is the alternate, less angsty ending, hope you all enjoy! Xx

Robin's distracted for the rest of his shift; his eyes anxiously wandering to the doors every time they clatter open, hoping she'll come back.

She doesn't.

"That's the hundredth time you've looked at those damn doors in the last hour, she's not coming back," August deadpans from beside him. "Clock out. Go after her."

"You sure? I don't want to leave you alone, and it's not like she and I are, you know," Robin gestures, hoping his movements will convey what he can't quite put into words.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean ya don't wanna be." August raises an eyebrow, his lips spreading into a suggestive smirk. "It's dead in here anyway, and your sour mood is scaring off the few customers we have."

Robin shoots him a look, and August mumbles a quick, Sorry, with raised hands and rolled eyes. "No, you're right," Robin sighs, running a restless hand through his sandy blond hair. "Sorry. I just can't stop thinking about her. She was so shook up, and I just bollocked it all up."

August walks over and grabs Robin's brown suede jacket off the line of hooks on the side wall and tosses it roughly into the center of his chest. "Get out of here. Go. Make sure our girl is okay, yeah?"

Robin doesn't argue again; he signs out at the register and shrugs on his jacket, pushing through the double-doored exit at a brisk jog. He turns, not quite sure of where he's going, he's never seen her outside the context of the bar, has no idea where to begin looking, but he doesn't have to wonder for long.

"Took you long enough." Her voice washes over him and he feels the tension of the last few hours drain away.

He turns and there she is, cheeks cherry red from the cold, sucking on a cigarette as she leans against the wall behind him, one knee bent so her heel rests against the stucco, and for the first time since he watched her leave, he feels like he can breathe. It takes every ounce of restraint he has not to march right over and wrap her in his arms, tuck her into the warmth of his jacket and just savor the fact that she is safe.

"You're here," he pants, breath fogging in the cold air.

"No, I'm a figment of your imagination." She takes a final drag off her cigarette and then flicks it in an orange-glowing arc into the street where it hits a puddle and fizzles out with a satisfying hiss.

"How long have you been out here?"

She shrugs, scuffing the toe of one of her heeled ankle boots along the sidewalk, refusing to make eye contact. "An hour. Maybe two."

"Jesus, woman, why didn't you come inside? You must be frozen! I've been out here five minutes and I'm already too cold," he grouses, hating himself when she flinches at his tone.

"Not my fault you've got thin English blood and you can't take a bit of weather," she sasses back, her mask sliding perfectly in place in an attempt to cover how jumpy she still is.

"Touché, m'lady," he concedes, making sure he keeps his pitch even and calm, pleased when she smiles in response. It tugs at his conscience, reminds him of what an utter arsehole he'd been when they'd talked just hours before. "About earlier," he starts, but she stops him with a raised hand before he can get any further.

"Can we not?" She grimaces, scrunching her nose in a way that he usually finds adorable, but he knows must pull at her bruised skin. "I'd rather not have some deep, heartfelt discussion about all of this. My day has been shitty enough as is."

"Fair enough. Can I at least ask one thing?"

"If you must."

"Why did you come back if you didn't want to come inside?"

He watches indecision filter over her face, her eyes flick back and forth, flitting over his features as if searching for some kind of answer. She must find whatever she's looking for because she tilts her head with a wry grin and says, "When I got home Leo's car was still out front and going inside seemed like an unwise decision. So I came back to the only place I feel safe."

"Here?"

"Yeah," she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Stupid, I know."

"Hey," he says, ducking down until he can meet her eyes. "You may be a lot of things, Regina, but stupid is not one of them. Now can we please go somewhere and get out of the bloody cold?"

"Okay," she replies with a low chuckle and a lip-bitten smile.

He shrugs out of his jacket and wraps it around her shoulders saying, "Come on, my place is a couple blocks away, this should help warm you up till we get there." She mumbles a quick thank you and follows him as he starts walking towards his apartment. He tucks his hands securely in his armpits, to keep them warm he reasons with himself, not at all to resist the itching desire to wrap his arm around her shoulders as she walks silently by his side.

…

He wasn't expecting company when he left in a rush for work earlier that night, so he's a bit ashamed to unlock the door and usher her into his small, one-bedroom flat. There's an empty cereal bowl on the counter, the spoon clattered beside it sticky with residual milk and sugar; a half-drunk cup of tea that has turned an unfortunate shade of grey from sitting in the open air for a little longer than is sanitary; and random bits of clothing scattered along the floor. It's not terrible, it's been worse, but it is by no means tidy.

"I'm sorry about the mess," he says, quickly gathering up his dirty laundry and shoving it in the hamper just inside the open bedroom door. "Make yourself at home."

She lingers in the hallway, nervously chewing on the cuticle of her thumbnail. "What if he doesn't leave?"

"What?"

"Leo. What if he stays there all night?"

"Why don't you just stay here tonight? It's late already and I promise you'll be perfectly safe here, on my honor as a gentleman," he vows, hands raised.

"And if I want you to be a little less...gentlemanly?" she drawls, with the raise of a suggestive eyebrow. She lets her bag slide off of her shoulder and drop to the ground, her jacket follows after in a puddle of leather.

He swallows thickly as she saunters up to him, reaching up toy with the collar of his shirt, knuckles barely grazing against the planes of his chest with each teasing movement up and down along the fabric. "Regina," he leads, wishing his voice didn't sound so husky, his body automatically responding to her proximity despite his brain shouting at him that it's not the right time.

"Shhh," she coos, "How else am I supposed to thank you?" She lifts up on her tip-toes, lips deliciously parted, eyes slipping closed as he starts to lean in, but then her words sink in and the fog of arousal dulling his brain clears like a summer day after a storm.

"Stop," he says gently, his fingers curling around her own and pulling them away from his chest. "Regina, you don't owe me anything, especially not what you were just trying to offer." He drops her hands and she immediately crosses her arms her chest, tugging at the ends of her sleeves until her fingers disappear from sight. "You've had a rough night. I'm more than happy just being a safe place for you to land for the night, we can deal with what to do next in the morning."

"Okay, sure." Her voice sounds hollow, distant, and he's not sure if it was his slight rejection, or if the events of her evening are just catching up with her. Either way, he's not about to let her slip into herself, not when he's right here willing to help.

"Are you hungry? Can I fix you something to eat?" he asks, hoping to break her out of the dreary mood she's slipping into.

"You can cook?" she sasses, casting her eyes pointedly to the empty cereal bowls still littering his countertops.

"Yes. Sort of. Okay, not really," he admits. "But I can do a mean takeout order." He grins, with what he hopes is a charming shrug of his shoulders.

She laughs, a warm, tinkling chuckle that from another other woman he might call a giggle, but Regina Mills is not the type of woman who giggles. "No. Thank you. I think I'm good," she replies, lips spread in what looks like a genuine smile for the first time all evening.

"Come on then, I'll get you some clothes you can sleep in."

She follows him into the bedroom while he fishes a pair of drawstring sweats she should be able to tie tight enough to stay on her trim waist and a soft cotton t-shirt from one of his drawers.

"The bathroom is just through there," he points to the door on the opposite side of the bedroom. "There are washcloths and towels in the linen closet if you want to shower or wash your face or anything."

"Thank you." She grabs the folded clothes from his hands and heads toward the bathroom, stopping with one hand on the doorframe, turning her upper body back towards him slightly to say, "Really, Robin, I don't know what would have happened if… just thank you."

"No problem," he smiles, walking around the end of the bed, grabbing his pillow from the right side.

"What are you doing?" she asks, still watching him from the bathroom door.

"I'm grabbing my pillow so I can make up the couch."

"Robin, I'm not taking your bed." She turns around fully, leaning against the doorjamb, staring him down.

"Yes. You are."

"I've already imposed upon your evening, I'm not going to exile you to a night on the couch too. You've already been more generous than I deserve, really, I'll take the couch."

"This is not up for negotiation, my house, my rules." He shrugs, ending the discussion with what he hopes is a playful finality.

She flinches, visibly flinches as if his words have smacked her across the face and oh bollocks, her ex must have said something like that to her or something because now she's looking at him like she doesn't know whether to run or kick his ass.

"I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry, I'm cocking this all up." He rubs the back of his neck with this right hand, his pillow dangling limply from his left.

"No, it's fine. You're right. I'm just going to hop in the shower, I'll be out in a minute." She slips into the bathroom, the door sliding shut behind her with a quiet click, the hollow resignation in her tone only serving to make him feel like even more of a tosser.

He hears the sound of the shower swishing on a moment later, and he changes quickly into his own pajamas, a pair of loose fitted plaid pants and a matching dark blue t-shirt. She'll probably be a few minutes, he thinks, so he busies himself with tucking a sheet around the couch cushions, dragging the blanket from the sofa down to rest on top, that should be fine for one night. Then he gathers all the dirty dishes and deposits them in the sink before grabbing two clean glasses from the cabinet and filling them with cool water, one he leaves on the coffee table for himself and the other he takes and leaves on the bedside table for her.

He's just finished gathering all the dirty clothes scattered around the apartment that he missed earlier when she emerges from the bathroom. She's decided to forgo the sweatpants, opting just his t-shirt instead, the soft cotton fabric dwarfing her frame, the hem resting about mid thigh. Her face is scrubbed of makeup, the angry bruise looking even more menacing without the layer of foundation to dull the discoloration. Ribbons of purple circle her upper arms like finger-shaped petals painfully blooming beneath her skin. She looks small, delicate and he's suddenly overwhelmed with the fierce desire to wrap her in his arms and protect her from anything outside this room, coupled with the urge to beat whoever did this to her to a bloody pulp.

"Thanks for the t-shirt, but the pants were a bit big," she smirks, handing him the folded sweats.

"No problem. Will you be warm enough in that? I can get you a hoodie or something."

"This is fine, thanks."

"I left you a glass of water on the table, I'll just be in the other room if you need anything else." He shoves his sweats back in the drawer they came from and then turns to pad back into the livingroom.

"Robin?"

Her voice stops him and he turns to see her, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the t-shirt, twisting the cotton round and around her fingers only to release the bunched up fabric and start the pattern all over again. "Yeah?" he asks, when she doesn't continue speaking.

"Could you," she takes a deep breath in then looks up, tucking a shower-dampened lock of hair behind her ear. "Could you stay with me? Don't worry, I won't try anything; your gentlemanly virtue is safe," she quips, a bit of her signature snark bubbling back up, but it fades, her face softening. "I just… I just don't want to be alone." The last few words tumble out in a raw whisper, she looks so vulnerable, barefoot and bruised in the middle of his bedroom, her whiskey brown eyes pleading with him to stay.

How can he possibly say no?

"Just let me grab my pillow." He pads into the living room, looking down the hall to double check that the door is locked and the chain is on, before collecting his pillow from the couch, turning off the kitchen and living room lights before heading back to his room.

She's already curled up on the left side of the bed, burrowed beneath the covers with one hand tucked beneath her pillow, so he flips off the overhead light and makes his way to the bed in the dark. He tosses his pillow lightly on his side of the bed before climbing under the covers, unsure whether he should turn away from her to give her some space or turn towards her so she knows he's there; he ends up laying awkwardly on his back, afraid if he moves too much he'll disturb her.

"I don't bite, you know," she chuckles. "I'm not going to bolt if you accidentally brush against me or kick me in your sleep, just make yourself comfortable." The last world is swallowed by a yawn as she snuggles further into her pillow.

He releases the breath he didn't know he was holding, relaxing into the mattress, flipping onto his side so he's facing her back, his eyes barely able to make out the slope of her shoulder and the elegant dip of her neck in the dark as he drifts off to sleep.

At some point in night they end up wrapped around each other, their sleeping bodies seeking the comfort of contact their waking selves aren't quite ready to accept.