Author's Note: Behold, friends, as I descend into the delicious depths of AxR shipping! To be honest, I needed a romantic interlude, since Lost Time doesn't afford me much of that. (grin) So AxR fans (and I include myself in your ranks), I hope you enjoy it. And I'll admit, I enjoyed writing it. Read and review! Thanks!

I'll also admit I do not own WHR, but I don't enjoy that.

The Memory of Scars and Skin

Amon never named the emotions that led him to seek solace in solitude. If pressed, he would have labeled it boredom, irritation, or the need for a stiff drink with other adults in an environment Robin was not welcome in. Perhaps the thought of sitting silently with her in yet another anonymous hotel room in yet another randomly chosen city just didn't appeal to him every day. It didn't matter if any of these things were true. All he knew was the need to be alone, to pretend that he was ordinary, and to momentarily forget that there was a fifteen year old girl waiting for him in a hotel room with eyes that made him too conscious of the simple things lacking in his life.

On this night he had indulged his need to be alone yet again, staying out until the deep hours before convincing himself of his need to return to the room. He slipped inside like a shadow, shrugging off his long black coat and silently kicking off his shoes. He released his held breath when he saw the room to be dark, taking this as an indication that for once Robin had not waited up for him and instead had gone to sleep as he suggested. For tonight at least he would not have to face the reproach and curiosity in those eyes.

In the bathroom Amon stripped the day old clothes from his body and let the hot water of the shower rinse him of the lingering aroma of smoke from the dive he had chosen for his solitary musings. He let the warmth sink into his tired muscles and closed his eyes as the water smoothed away the perpetual worry lines etched on his young forehead. The whole body sensation of thousands of drops pounding his skin simultaneously only heightened the feeling of the alcohol buzz still lingering in his blood stream and he savored it, thankful that there were legal ways of muffling the gnawing concern that had become his constant companion since he had disappeared with Robin more than six months ago.

After a luxuriously long shower Amon scrubbed himself dry and slipped into his soft flannel sleeping pants. A look through the bathroom produced no sign of a comb with which to untangle his wet and dripping mass of black hair, and so he eased the door open and crept into the dark bedroom with stealthy bare feet.

The comb he sought was on the bureau opposite the two beds and he grabbed it and began to patiently coax the tangles from his long hair. It was slow and tedious work, and his eyes wandered of their own accord through the reflected room in the mirror he was facing. The moon was extremely bright and cast the surroundings into a monochromatic scene; the white moonlight throwing the black shadows into sharp relief. He came upon a particularly obstinate tangle in his hair and sighed, working it apart with his fingers.

The echo of his sigh sounded behind him, making his charcoal eyes snap back to the mirror before him. Robin, who he had thought was asleep, was instead laying very still, her shining eyes being the only indication of her wakefulness. She was watching him.

"What is it Robin?" he asked in a low murmur, addressing the reflection rather than the girl. Her eyes moved to find his in the glass.

She didn't answer right away, simply continuing to lay with unnatural stillness, her gaze never leaving his. It made him internally squirm, and he felt frustration rising. "Nothing," she sighed again, though she didn't look away.

Fine, let her look, he ordered himself firmly, and finished combing his hair under the pretense that he was acting normally and was completely unconcerned by Robin's weighty gaze. Yet his eyes still covertly slid to the mirror to see if in fact she was still studying him, and he felt an electric tingle when their gazes locked briefly.

He finished with his hair and set the comb down a little more firmly than was really necessary before turning and facing the young voyeur. He stood beside her bed, towering over her reclined form, letting his self-consciousness vent under the guise of irritation. "What?" he asked demandingly.

He had expected her to answer as she had previously done; to respond to his assumed authority in the passive way she always did. But this time was different. Her eyes didn't lower respectfully and she didn't even make a pretense of settling in to sleep as she knew he wanted. Robin sat up instead and reached out her hand, letting the blankets fall away from her white linen nightgown.

Her fingers brushed a prominent scar on his ribcage and he flinched in surprise at her touch to his bare torso. "That's a scar from when you saved me that day at headquarters," she whispered, "isn't it?"

Amon nodded, pretending nonchalance. She reached higher and touched a similar old wound near his left shoulder. "This one too?" she murmured. He nodded and eyed her rather warily, uncertain what to expect next. This entire exchange was sufficiently out of the ordinary as to be unsettling, and his lingering intoxication was now a hindrance he was regretting. It must be the alcohol that enabled him to still feel the feather light touch of her fingers on his skin. That must be it.

The green eyes that looked up at him were huge. "I guess we all have our scars, don't we?" She lowered her hand and indicated a spot on her chest, a round mark just peeking above the laced edge of her nightdress. "Here's where they shot me that night in the apartment."

His jaw clenched as he remembered that night; more specifically recalling the part he had played in that ambush. "I see," he choked out, and sat lightly on the edge of the bed. "I hadn't realized any bullets actually hit you."

"Just a scratch really," she said in a stoic tone. "It got past my guard, but I must have slowed it down. It pierced the skin, but the bullet fell out right away."

Robin distracted his guilt ridden pondering of this mark by pointing to a long scar high on her right arm. "And this was from the witch in the park. The painter, remember?"

"I remember," he whispered, and his fingers spontaneously reached out to touch it, as though to feel it would transport him back to that moment. "That was right after we got your glasses," he recalled as his fingertip traced the line of raised skin.

Her smile warmed his whole body. "Yes, that's right." Then her hand rested on the sheet, indicating her right thigh. "There's a scar here as well, though it's old," she told him. "It's from one of my first hunts."

His eyes were riveted on her, and she continued. "I was almost ten, and had only done a handful of hunts, just helping out, never really involved in the actual capture. One night we had cornered a witch. We were chasing him, and he led us out to a rocky hill. When he finally turned on us we realized he was much more powerful than originally thought. I was shocked by his ability. I let my guard down I'll admit. It was only for a moment but he hit me and I went flying. I don't remember hitting the rocks, but I came to in the hospital."

Her grin was more of a grimace. "Juliano said after that it was a valuable lesson – never to become distracted and never to underestimate a witch's power."

Amon nodded gravely, unusually moved by the thought of a nine year old Robin sent out to kill adult witches. "That's a hard lesson to learn so young."

"But a necessary lesson," she insisted with quiet conviction.

They sat in an amiable silence for several moments; each thinking of past hunts gone wrong, of lessons learned the hard way. Amon didn't know what this conversation portended or what had prompted it, but somehow just the barest touch of physical contact and easy association made something in him unwind a little bit.

Then Robin spoke again.

"That day that you saved me," she whispered, her hand hovering just above Amon's abdominal scar, "you were hurt badly, weren't you?"

"Yes, I was. I was in the hospital for some time."

Her look shifted alarmingly from contemplative to tormented. "Why," she whispered vehemently, "didn't you come with me? Why didn't you take the tunnel as you had me do? Why did you stay to get shot?"

Amon looked as uncomfortable as he felt. "To protect you," he replied. "I thought if I went down the tunnel as well that they would figure out where we had gone. I stayed so you could get away."

She tried to catch it before it caught his notice, but nonetheless he saw as she brushed an errant tear from her cheek. "I heard them shoot you," she choked, pressing her hand to the scar on his torso. His hand reflexively closed over hers. "I thought they had killed you. I, I couldn't bear it…"

He looked down to his large hand engulfing her small one, but didn't remove it. Having no idea what else to say, he squeezed it softly, pressing it against his skin. "I'm all right now," he finally whispered.

"I wish I could take it away," she answered. "You were shot because of me. And now you're running because of me. You didn't have to help me then, and you did. You didn't have to offer to protect me now, but you did." She trailed off, and her gaze was intense.

The question Amon dreaded escaped her lips at last. "Why?" she breathed, their faces inches apart. "Why are you helping me?"

Amon dropped her hand and sat back, looking disconcerted. "I told you I would look out for you, to protect you from others, to protect you from yourself." An easy answer he knew she wouldn't accept.

And she didn't. "But why did you offer to help me?"

"I am helping you because you need help."

Robin was undeterred. "Amon," she said softly, more a plea than a reproach.

His face hardened. "We don't need to talk about this," he said in a feeble attempt to leave this dangerous topic.

"Why?"

He rose suddenly. "I, I helped you because you are my partner."

She pounced on this. "You hunted your other partner."

"I hunted you too," he blurted out, his agitation making him unaware of the weakness of his argument.

Her face contorted as though he had struck her, but she persisted. "Yes you did, you were ordered to hunt and kill me, but you disobeyed orders. You spared me even when I would have let you kill me." She was now sitting all the way up on her knees, looking up into his face. "Why?" she pressed in a breathy whisper.

Amon strode away from her to the window. "Do you think it's very wise to question the motives of a person willing to help you when you need it?" he asked, doing his best to summon his indifferent demeanor. "Would you rather do this alone?" he questioned coldly, hating the threat implied but wanting so badly to end this line of discussion.

"No," came the reply from directly behind him. He whirled around to find Robin standing in her nightgown, bed tousled hair loose and cascading over her shoulders. "No, Amon, no." The hurt in her face cut him deeply. "I didn't mean to demand…I'm sorry…I, I guess I'm just tired." Her head lowered and her golden hair rushed forward to shield her face.

The discussion was over, he had succeeded, but seeing her stand there looking so forlorn bit at his conscience. "That's not what I meant," he admitted recklessly before he could stop himself. "I just…"

Her face lifted and the moon struck it, making her ivory skin glow and her emerald eyes spark. His breath caught in his throat before he could finish his sentence, the look in her eyes making him feel every drink he'd had tonight. "I just… I can't…" His hands reached out and took her by the shoulders, and he was wildly uncertain in that instant whether he was pulling her toward him or keeping her away.

"I care, Robin," he finally managed to whisper hoarsely. "That's why I'm here. That's why I helped you. Okay?" About you, he wanted to add to that statement. I care about you, Robin. But the words wouldn't leave his constricted throat. Instead he willed them into her mind with his charcoal eyes.

Robin nodded, looking at him with aching vulnerability. "Okay," she conceded without looking away. He felt trapped in her emerald eyes, unable to break the gaze that connected them. Slowly he pushed her back until she sat on the bed. "Please," he whispered, and her look was startled and questioning. "Please, sleep now Robin. Please."

He had knelt before her, and the hands holding her shoulders crept up - even as he cursed himself for a weak fool - crept up her neck to either side of her face, twining his fingers into her silky hair. She sighed and leaned her cheek into one of his hands, closing her eyes. "I care about you too Amon," she breathed as he guided her head onto her pillow. Once settled there he brushed the hair carefully away from her face.

"Sleep now Robin," he pleaded in a whisper, willing himself to remove his hands from her soft skin and draw the covers over her. He retreated to the other bed and sat upon it, resting his head in his hands for a moment before lying back. He stared at the ceiling, scarcely able to breathe for the confusing snarl of feelings tightening in his head.

This feeling, this moment is what he sought to avoid through solitude. And yet it had come to pass despite his best efforts. Of course Amon wasn't willing to admit that he had not committed his best efforts; that he had secretly longed for the single second when his fingers would brush her downy soft cheek and become lost in the ocean of her hair. No, of course this ache was not any indication of words left unspoken or acts undone.

So once again he studied the ceiling above his bed, listening to her breathing as it slowed to sleeping, knowing that he wouldn't be alone in his wakefulness. The echo of that touch and frustrated desires would keep watch as well.