The silence is enough to make the anger fade. It doesn't go away completely. Does it ever go away? It's enough to make it fade. Other emotions dislodge themselves and take its place. There's exhaustion so heavy that he can't stand up straight. There's grief and guilt that feel like blades resting in his chest.
She hates it sometimes, too.
They all do, don't they?
Hasn't the world given her enough to hate about it as well? There's more than that, of course. Vincent said that life was built on people he couldn't save. It's more than that. He knows that, but it's so hard to reach that knowledge in all this darkness, in all this pain.
He should have done more, and Jo is dead now because he didn't do more. Robin will have to contact Wyatt again. He knows that to think he could live a normal life was foolish. Robin has to do more. He has to reach out. His desire to help those like him doesn't leave, but he has to-- He has to figure out how to do that without compromising what he has with Rachel, what he's made for himself.
"No," he says finally in response. "I don't."
So much of his life has been spent alone. He doesn't want to live that way any more, not for another moment, not when he knows that she's all that can make it better sometimes. Just her presence. even when she says nothing at all. Just knowing that there's someone that loves him, that's right there.
In all that silence, Robin slides to the floor, pressing his hands against his face. His body trembles and relaxes, letting those emotions out at last. All of them. They overwhelm him, keep him stuck on the floor.
Robin winces heavily, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. Hot tears slide down his face. "I'm just so fucking tired." He's so tired of fighting, of losing, of always feeling anger. And she knows it. He didn't need to say it out loud but it came out anyway. "I don't want to be alone. Please."
Her presence gives him strength, and he honestly doesn't-- He's afraid of what would happen if he spent much more time alone tonight. It's not that he's on the edge of suicide, like he's been so many times before. It's more that the whole of him is being held together so precariously.
He's struggling to believe everything that he's believed these past couple of months. He's struggling to remain fighting to believe that he hasn't made a bad decision by staying alive, and he's not sure that he can do that alone right now. Robin is not sure he can see the light in the darkness if there isn't someone holding his hand in the midst of it. Maybe it makes him weak. He doesn't care. Better to admit the weakness than let it ruin all that he has, that he's so happy to have.
Jo's dead. She's resting. She's not feeling anymore pain, and he loves her still and misses her and-- There are so many regrets, like boulders on his back. Natasha killed herself. Jo killed herself. He's still here.
"I know you are," Rachel says in a thin whisper, pushing past the lump in her throat as she slides down against the door to join him on the ground. Her knuckles brush gently against his wet cheek before she overturns her hand, cupping the side of his face and bringing him closer.
She knows he must be so tired, and the world doesn't really have a right to ask him to keep fighting, and it still does.
She still does. It isn't in her to do anything else.
I don't want to be alone.
She shakes her head; a sad, tearful smile, and she says, "You're not."
Rachel was there in that hallway all those months ago, and she was there in his room as they slid to the floor like they have now (everything you are is safe with me), and she doesn't ever plan to do anything differently.
There are so many reasons she could give him as to why he should still be here, some of them selfish and some of them not. All of them true.
Rachel's aware he already knows them and it's only hard to remember because it hurts so much.
She places her lips on his forehead, beginning a gentle exploration as they brush against his eyelids and the length of his cheek, fingertips resting on his neck. You're not alone. I'm here.
The silence isn't uncomfortable for her, and it pervades as she repeats the ministrations, fingers stroking his hair, moving to the stiff of his shoulders. There's soft pressure in the tips of her fingers and the heel of her palm before they go still, and she just wraps her arms around him and holds him close.
"I'm not going anywhere, Robin," Rachel whispers against his neck, and she won't, not while there's breath in her. He didn't leave her in that hotel room when she needed it most.
It takes him a few moments. It takes her kissing him before he really seems to register that she's there, and then he wraps his arms around her, pulling her close. Robin closes his eyes, breathing her in and letting her presence and her touch center him. It's keeping him from spiraling into an something that would be so hard to pull himself out of again.
"I love you," Robin says, and it's a hoarse whisper but the truth and intensity of it strengthen him.
He lets himself believe that she's not going anywhere, no matter what happens, no matter what disaster may be beyond her control. Robin needs that tonight. He needs to believe that he won't lose her, too. If he holds her tight enough, he pretends he can keep her safe, here, untouched by this world that he hates so much right now. It's not true, but he needs to pretend.
Robin told her that she makes it all better, and she does. He doesn't usually notice the exhaustion around her, even the anger seems to quiet in her presence and it's less of a struggle to fight against it. He has to remember that. There are so many good memories that they've shared. He's been so happy.
And he will.
Right now, he's going to hold her close, keep his eyes closed, and try not to think at all, except to remember a girl who died he loved, who died too soon, who felt so much pain but deserved so much more.
It doesn't matter to Rachel. It could take Robin five minutes or five hours. It could take him all night and it wouldn't make a difference. She wouldn't think to leave his side, not for an instant. It's what they've always been able to do for each other and now is no different.
Her hands curl into the hair at his nape, lips lingering on his neck, brushing a kiss there. It's a gentle touch, done for no other reason than to assure him of her presence, of everything she cannot seem to say in words.
"I love you, too," Rachel whispers there into the silent skin, closing her eyes and allowing him to feel the truth of it.
Safe and warm and steadfast.
She knows it isn't over, not by far. She knows there are many things he has to deal with. None of which he'll have to deal with alone.
She hates it sometimes, too.
They all do, don't they?
Hasn't the world given her enough to hate about it as well? There's more than that, of course. Vincent said that life was built on people he couldn't save. It's more than that. He knows that, but it's so hard to reach that knowledge in all this darkness, in all this pain.
He should have done more, and Jo is dead now because he didn't do more. Robin will have to contact Wyatt again. He knows that to think he could live a normal life was foolish. Robin has to do more. He has to reach out. His desire to help those like him doesn't leave, but he has to-- He has to figure out how to do that without compromising what he has with Rachel, what he's made for himself.
"No," he says finally in response. "I don't."
So much of his life has been spent alone. He doesn't want to live that way any more, not for another moment, not when he knows that she's all that can make it better sometimes. Just her presence. even when she says nothing at all. Just knowing that there's someone that loves him, that's right there.
In all that silence, Robin slides to the floor, pressing his hands against his face. His body trembles and relaxes, letting those emotions out at last. All of them. They overwhelm him, keep him stuck on the floor.
Robin winces heavily, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. Hot tears slide down his face. "I'm just so fucking tired." He's so tired of fighting, of losing, of always feeling anger. And she knows it. He didn't need to say it out loud but it came out anyway. "I don't want to be alone. Please."
Her presence gives him strength, and he honestly doesn't-- He's afraid of what would happen if he spent much more time alone tonight. It's not that he's on the edge of suicide, like he's been so many times before. It's more that the whole of him is being held together so precariously.
He's struggling to believe everything that he's believed these past couple of months. He's struggling to remain fighting to believe that he hasn't made a bad decision by staying alive, and he's not sure that he can do that alone right now. Robin is not sure he can see the light in the darkness if there isn't someone holding his hand in the midst of it. Maybe it makes him weak. He doesn't care. Better to admit the weakness than let it ruin all that he has, that he's so happy to have.
Jo's dead. She's resting. She's not feeling anymore pain, and he loves her still and misses her and-- There are so many regrets, like boulders on his back. Natasha killed herself. Jo killed herself. He's still here.
He's still here.
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She knows he must be so tired, and the world doesn't really have a right to ask him to keep fighting, and it still does.
She still does. It isn't in her to do anything else.
I don't want to be alone.
She shakes her head; a sad, tearful smile, and she says, "You're not."
Rachel was there in that hallway all those months ago, and she was there in his room as they slid to the floor like they have now (everything you are is safe with me), and she doesn't ever plan to do anything differently.
There are so many reasons she could give him as to why he should still be here, some of them selfish and some of them not. All of them true.
Rachel's aware he already knows them and it's only hard to remember because it hurts so much.
She places her lips on his forehead, beginning a gentle exploration as they brush against his eyelids and the length of his cheek, fingertips resting on his neck. You're not alone. I'm here.
The silence isn't uncomfortable for her, and it pervades as she repeats the ministrations, fingers stroking his hair, moving to the stiff of his shoulders. There's soft pressure in the tips of her fingers and the heel of her palm before they go still, and she just wraps her arms around him and holds him close.
"I'm not going anywhere, Robin," Rachel whispers against his neck, and she won't, not while there's breath in her. He didn't leave her in that hotel room when she needed it most.
It's never left her and it never will.
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"I love you," Robin says, and it's a hoarse whisper but the truth and intensity of it strengthen him.
He lets himself believe that she's not going anywhere, no matter what happens, no matter what disaster may be beyond her control. Robin needs that tonight. He needs to believe that he won't lose her, too. If he holds her tight enough, he pretends he can keep her safe, here, untouched by this world that he hates so much right now. It's not true, but he needs to pretend.
Robin told her that she makes it all better, and she does. He doesn't usually notice the exhaustion around her, even the anger seems to quiet in her presence and it's less of a struggle to fight against it. He has to remember that. There are so many good memories that they've shared. He's been so happy.
And he will.
Right now, he's going to hold her close, keep his eyes closed, and try not to think at all, except to remember a girl who died he loved, who died too soon, who felt so much pain but deserved so much more.
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Her hands curl into the hair at his nape, lips lingering on his neck, brushing a kiss there. It's a gentle touch, done for no other reason than to assure him of her presence, of everything she cannot seem to say in words.
"I love you, too," Rachel whispers there into the silent skin, closing her eyes and allowing him to feel the truth of it.
Safe and warm and steadfast.
She knows it isn't over, not by far. She knows there are many things he has to deal with. None of which he'll have to deal with alone.
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