goodfellow | for Thomas

for Thomas

Robin was "home" early from work because he'd sold a car for approximately three times what it was worth with the customer kissing his feet by the end. Seemed like a good reason to call it a day on a good note, and so he'd driven his own car way too fast down a busy street back to Thomas' place.

Thomas was still at the salon, and so Robin puttered around for a bit, bored. He took off his shoes and socks and jacket, drank a glass of wine, drank another glass of wine, and then started snooping around. He hadn't done a lot of that, considering how long he'd been staying here. He liked to think it was because Thomas was usually home when he was, or because he didn't care enough, rather than something like respecting the vampire's privacy.

He was glancing through the coat closet when he heard the front door open. It was pretty innocuous, the coat closet, so he didn't bother to stop. Instead he pulled out a hideous crocheted scarf, holding it between his hands and turning to regard Thomas (who looked as edible as always).

"I didn't take you for the handmade-by-grandma style," Robin said dryly, looking at the scarf with some distaste.

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Robin politely gave him approximately thirty seconds, and then his voice rose in a demand again. "You cannot think that will pass without explanation."

Thomas made an irritated noise and turned to him. "Can I take care of my hands first?" he growled, holding them up to show that they were starting to blister and resisting the urge to demand to know what Robin had even been doing with it. They'd cover that in a minute.

"Oh please, you'll be fine in ten minutes," Robin scoffed, clearly unimpressed. "Talk while you do whatever you need to do. Unless it's sticking your tongue down my throat, as I reserve sexual energy healing mojo until you tell me what's going on."

Thomas glared at Robin and moved down the hall to the bathroom. "Fine." But he didn't start talking right away. He gingerly sorted through his medical supplies, getting the burn cream out and opening it. Despite the pain it caused, he refused to ask Robin for help. Not right now.

"What do you want me to explain?"

Robin followed right after him, lingering in the doorway and leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. He gave Thomas his very best 'don't treat me like I'm a moron' look.

"Why don't we start with, I don't know, the scorching knitwear."

Thomas took a deep breath and began coating the burns with the cream. "It was a gift. From someone important to me." Which doesn't explain the burns, of course, but Thomas was working up to that.

Robin didn't budge.

"In that case, the mystery of your terrible taste is solved, though I think you're forgetting something."

"Keep your pants on, for once. I'm getting there," Thomas snapped, holding his hands awkwardly away from his body as he finished applying the burn cream. He leaned against the bathroom counter and took another deep breath. "You know how they say 'love hurts'? Well, for me that's literally the case."

"You can skip the colloquialisms and go straight to the actual explanation," Robin said, and then sighed, stepping into the bathroom. "You missed a spot," he said, and took the bottle of cream.

"That is the explanation," Thomas replied, then reluctantly held his hands out to Robin. "Love hurts me. Someone who is truly in love, real love, is protected from what I do. Imagine trying to kiss someone if it did this to your mouth. Not to mention other places..."

It was not actually something Robin cared to imagine, despite how many such things he'd been threatened with over the centuries. With nonchalant gentleness he took one of Thomas' hands and spread some of the cream over the area he'd missed.

"Though I assume the scarf isn't in love," he said, even as he turned the concept over in his mind. It really was very interesting, and he thought explained some of Thomas' character as well.

Thomas kept his gaze on his hands. "There's love in every stitch of it," he answered quietly, feeling the familiar ache in his chest as he thought of Justine.

Robin was, all considered, very clever. It was not exactly a difficult task to put those pieces together.

"Oh," he said, and released Thomas' hand once he'd finished with the cream. "Well fuck me on the pantheon, that is tragic. Someone loved you and now you can't touch them. Or even something they made for you, is that it?"

"That's it," Thomas confirmed with a tight smile, finally looking at Robin. "Now how about you help me wrap my hands so I can hold a drink?"

Robin looked at him for a second, and then wordlessly moved closer so that he could reach over him to open a drawer and pull out a roll of bandaging tape.

"I changed my mind," he said anyway. "You can stick your tongue down my throat, if it would help."

Thomas chuckled a little, even though he didn't really feel like laughing. "I'm okay. If you want to help, you can make the drinks." He needed one right about now.

At least Robin wasn't asking any more annoying questions.

"Turn down the opportunity to raid your liquor cabinet?" Robin responded dryly. "Never."

He carefully wrapped some of the tape around Thomas' right hand. "I would apologize, but it's pretty clearly your fault for grabbing for the thing."

Thomas snorted. "Which reminds me. What were you doing with it?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Questioning your taste," Robin said. "I was concerned. May have had to stage a fashion intervention." He finished with one hand and started on the other.

"You should know better," Thomas replied, but he let it go. It was really a surprise Robin hadn't gone snooping sooner--he would have, in the puck's place.

"Glad to know I wasn't so terribly wrong about you," Robin said, even though the whole bit about him being in love didn't exactly sit well.

He finished, and dropped Thomas' hands. "There. You clean this up, I'll get the booze." He turned and strode out of the bathroom.

"Thank you," Thomas muttered under his breath, doing his best to put everything away without dropping anything. He headed back into the kitchen once it was all taken care of, banishing thoughts of Justine to the back of his mind where they usually dwelt.

Robin couldn't remember a lot of the night he'd come here to stay, given how incredibly drunk he'd been. He did have a vague recollection that maybe he had mentioned his marriage... though he rather hoped not.

Once in the kitchen, he looked through the bottles for a moment, and then pulled out the good scotch. He poured four shots and lined them up on the counter.

Thomas entered the room and made a beeline for the liquor. "That's a good start," he commented, fumbling one of the shot glasses into an awkward grip and draining it.

Robin watched him drain it, put the bottle away, and pulled out the cheaper stuff.

Then he knocked back one of the shots himself before refilling the one empty shot glass for Thomas.

"I approve of this coping mechanism," he announced.

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