Work Text:
"Baby, you don't need to review it again."
Robin's voice actually shocks her out of her stupor and she jumps, just a little—face flooding with heat.
It's Saturday, so Beth and Tam had asked if they could throw a watch party for the away game, and Andie had promptly parked her ass in her soulmate's living room in hopes of finding some peace and quiet and time to finish this goddamn application. She's sitting at Robin's kitchen table, now, crunched up on a dining chair with lunch forgotten beside her.
It's been hours, actually, since she made that bowl of ramen. Did she eat any of it?
"Oh, you've been reviewing it all day, haven't you?" Her voice is flat with disappointment.
Robin is still standing in the doorway, untying her boots and tucking her work bag beside the shoe rack. She's stunning, as always, even a little rumpled after a long work day. Andie feels so incredibly aware of the fact that she forgot to put on deodorant this morning.
Something inside of her wilts the longer the silence between them stretches. There's no way Robin's more disappointed in her than she is in herself, right?
"Yes. But I didn't mean to! I was just reading it one more time before I ate."
They've only known each other a couple of months, and being with her soulmate really is as easy as she'd always been told it would be, truly. Doesn't make it any less terrifying, though, to be seen and understood before you've even had the chance to expose yourself.
"Uh huh," Robin doesn't even pretend to entertain her. "And what time did you start reading it one more time?"
Andie avoids her eye, stands and starts cleaning up where she's got papers spread out and several half-drank coffee cups accompanying her cold noodles. This happens, sometimes, with Robin—this feeling.
It's like she's being hunted.
She gets her official start date for spring interns email two days after she tells Robin that they still won't be living together when summer arrives, and she forwards it to her Mommy immediately. Knows better than to stand between Robin and a calendar updating opportunity.
A whole week to prep! How are your nerves?
Ugh, is she that transparent?
Fine.
And Robin's off today, but Mondays are Andie's study day, so she mutes her notifications and puts her phone on the other side of her bedroom; there's no room for soulmate-shaped distractions today.
Not that Robin is a distraction. She hates to even think that she might think of Robin that way. That Robin might think she's seen that way. She doesn't. She isn't.
Right now, everything's just…weird.
Robin was so clearly upset about the lease renewal, but she just kept insisting it was fine. Andie's got this monster sitting on her chest every time she thinks about it, breath gone like she's got cinderblocks for feet and she's been dropped in the ocean.
She just keeps fucking this whole thing up. No matter how hard she tries.
When Andie doesn't know how to handle something, she runs from it. Hopes that maybe it'll just…go away. Work itself out without her. Get better on its own.
She's pretty sure that won't work with Robin, though. Given that Andie would rather lose everything she's ever worked for than actually run away from her soulmate.
What's she supposed to do? How is she supposed to fix it if all she has to work off is Robin's insistence that everything is fine clashing with the voice in her head that says she doesn't even deserve what Robin gives her anyway?
She doesn't get any reading done, too busy picking at her cuticles and glancing at her phone, hoping Robin isn't mad at her. So when her alarm goes off 50 minutes later (thank you pomodoro method) and her notebook is just as empty as it was before (as useless her brain) she doesn't even care when she bursts across the room and almost trips on a pile of laundry and runs her shin into her dresser.
She just wants to know what her Mommy said.
I'll take you shopping Thursday after work. You need new Big Girl Clothes!
"Um, I think around one," Andie says, dumps out her noodles and puts her bowl in the sink. Turns on the hot water just to have something to do with her hands.
It was at noon, actually.
Robin scoffs, stalking after her into the kitchen. "You're a terrible liar."
Yeah, she is.
"I just…" And her voice catches in her throat, now, and she's trying to blink tears out of her eyes but, actually, she's just blinking them into the fucking sink. "Don't want you to be mad at me."
Robin makes a pained noise, stands beside her and rests her hip against the counter, arms crossed. "I'm not mad at you, baby. I'm worried about you."
That's worse.
She continues. "If I'd realized how stressed this would make you, I never would've suggested—"
"No!" Andie bursts, doesn't want Robin to think it's her fault she's all messed up. "No, Mommy, I—"
They haven't done that outside of sex, really.
It's natural, in the heat of pleasure, to melt under Robin's touch and follow her every instruction. But when they're not in the bed (or the shower, or the couch—or, once, last week, the kitchen counter), Andie folds all of those less-than-sexy parts of herself up into a little envelope that she shoves in the back of a chest that she aggressively keeps locked up.
Except for now, apparently.
"I can handle it," she finishes lamely.
Andie can't breathe and Robin is quiet, and after a moment her soulmate reaches out and turns off the faucet. The silence that follows is piercing. Then Robin breaks it.
"Do you trust me?"
She sounds uncertain, and it's so foreign to Andie that she finally just turns and looks up at her. Feels terrified and also confident when she says, "Of course I do."
Robin searches her face. Looking for doubt, maybe. And she'll find lots of things written across Andie's expression, certainly.
But doubt isn't one of them.
After a moment, she's satisfied, and she nods once before she says, "Then why don't you let Mommy take over for the rest of the day?"
Andie is in the fourth dressing room of the day and she's reaching her limit.
The music is loud and the temperature in this place is high and the fit on these pants is weird.
"You okay in there, baby?" Robin's voice is all sugar and bright, and it makes Andie wince.
"I'm fine," she calls back, a little sharper than she means.
The silence that follows is painful, and she can see, in the mirror, the way her whole body deflates when she realizes how mean she's being. Still, despite her best efforts, no words claw up and out of her throat.
Andie keeps trying on clothes.
She's down to no-pants, no-shoes, twisting herself all up in the mirror to decide how she looks in this lovely, comfy blouse with tiny little white flowers all over it, when she gets an email—notifications are only turned on for school/work/internship-related communications. So, immediately, her hands get clammy while she reads it.
Andromeda and Hailey,
Hope you are both as excited as we are to have you start next week! Based on your respective availabilities, we've parsed out the following schedule:
Monday: Hailey, 9:30-3
Tuesday: Andromeda, 9-2:30
Wednesday: Hailey, 8-1:30; Andromeda, 10:30-4
Thursday: Andromeda, 9-2:30
Friday: Hailey, 10:30-3
Obviously we can be flexibile with whatever else you might have on your plate, but we'd really like to have consistency in scheduling as much as possible.
That said, we received the shipment of the next exhibit in our rotation space today, and think it would be a great opportunity for you both to jump in head first. Opening night is next Friday at 6pm, so there's a lot to get done and not a lot of time. Welcome to museum work!
I've CC'd our Curator of Collections and Exhibit Coordinator, Cheryl Nichols. She'll assign and oversee your work on this project.
Best,
Tracey Williams
Executive Director
And the availability does, technically, work. But it doesn't leave her a lot of time to study if she's also got her assistantship hours to fulfill.
Andie plops down on the bench in the dressing room, ignores the cold on her thighs, and shoots off an email to her boss:
John,
I just got the details on my internship hours. Can I change up my schedule temporarily, starting next week? I'm thinking 7-5:30 Monday and Friday? I can also pick up Saturday reading room coverage, if I'm not allowed to stay that late. Let me know, thanks!
-A
Her leg is bouncing and she's biting her thumbnail and she's doing the math.
So, ten hours days Monday and Friday are fine because she doesn't have any classes those days. And she's got two classes on T/TH at 3 and then 5, so that's fine—and, then, her Wednesday morning class from 7-10. That's enough time to get everywhere on time. And she can do readings on lunch breaks and in the evenings, and move Study Days to Saturday and Sunday, which should be—
A,
Whatever works for you works for me. We can discuss more tomorrow if needed.
J
Okay, she hadn't really been concerned, but thank god John is so laid back (and he knows Robin). This can work, she's pretty sure, and the internship is only—
"Baby?" Robin knocks while she speaks this time, and Andie jumps. Her phone clatters to the floor. "You been in there awhile. Everything okay?"
"Yep!" She hustles around the room, shoving herself back into her clothes—an oversized t-shirt dress and these weird, baby pink lace-up Birkenstocks she's been obsessed with since undergrad. The clothes she tried on are in a heap in her arms when she exits the dressing room and she tells Robin, "These are all great! Can we go?"
Robin's brow is furrowed, but she holds up a pair of black, chunky loafers. "I think you should get these, too."
Andie wrinkles her nose, "Why? I'll probably just wear my Birks."
Robin wrinkles her nose, now, eyes on the shoes in question, "Baby, those shoes are one long walk away from their grave. You need shoes that are comfortable, supportive, and professional. And this'll go with pretty much anything you decide to wear, anyway."
She knows Robin's right. She knows. But Robin's paid for everything she's tried on today, already.
"Okay," she acquiesces. And almost collapses under the pleased look on Robin's face, and then wants to die when it crumbles a little when she adds, "Then I'll just get those. I don't need anymore clothes anyway. You've done enough."
And Robin's real quiet, after that, but at least Andie's giving her credit card a reprieve.
"Do you want lavender or eucalyptus?"
Robin is crouched in the bathroom closet, digging through a bin of stuff she described as her mom's forever futile attempts to make me femme. Mostly, apparently, that seems to translate to bath bombs and flowery soaps and lotions and body scrubs. Enough smells to compete with Bath & Bodyworks.
"Um…" She's not sure. Not sure she has a preference. Lavendar can be relaxing, but eucalyptus might be nice for all the tightness in her back. Does she like one smell over the other? Not really—
"Okay," Robin pops up, bubble bath in hand. "Eucalyptus it is."
"Huh?" Did she answer?
Robin grips her chin in one hand, firm and sudden, and tilts Andie's face from side to side like she's doing an appraisal. Andie's breath is in her throat, afraid of what her soulmate might find. She squeezes her eyes shut against the scrutiny.
"I'm sorry I even asked, baby," Robin murmurs. "You don't need questions."
Robin grips the hinge of Andie's jaw, tightens her hold until Andie's eyes and mouth pop open—until she's panting and tearing up, collapsing a little bit into Robin's chest. Feels so fucking fragile, like she's made of glass in Robin's hand. Can't find her breath, can practically see the way Robin's holding it all in her lungs.
"No, of course not," Robin continues. "My baby doesn't need questions or decisions."
Her other hand reaches out, slips right over Andie's throat and squeezes. "What my baby needs is a firm hand."
She forgets to tell Robin about the schedule change. This becomes apparent when Robin texts her good morning on Monday and, then, asks what time she's coming over after studying.
So when she takes her morning 15 around 9:30, sitting outside the campus library and picking at a blueberry muffin, she calls her soulmate.
"Hi baby," Robin's voice is soft as if she's still in bed.
A lazy Robin is Andie's favorite, sometimes. Robin will keep her trapped in bed, wrapped up in her arms and marathoning some show Andie's been wanting to watch. She gets food delivered and lets them eat it in bed and, sometimes, if Andie's brain is all melty like ice cream left out in the sun, Robin will put them back to chest and hand feed her.
It's the thought of Robin placing a cracker on her tongue that makes her voice all watery when she whispers, "Hi Mommy."
"What's wrong?" It's like she bursts through the layers of sleepiness, of softness, becomes all awake and alert and serious to take care of Andie.
God, she can't even let her soulmate enjoy peace, can she? And on her day off.
She sucks back the guilt and the tears and the wave of self-hate rushing over her, clears her throat and says, "I forgot to tell you that my schedule changed."
"Oh, that's okay honey," her tone is all breathy, a mix of disappointment and also confusion. "What's the new schedule?"
Andie rubs her forehead with the back of her hand and closes her eyes against the morning sun. "Um, 10 hours at the library Monday and Friday, and then 5 hours at the museum Tuesday through Thursday, plus a half-hour unpaid lunch break? And then I have an exhibit set up that I'm helping with so I'll probably help out at opening night on Friday evening. And then my usual class schedule. I can send you the hours, I have the emails. I'm so sorry, I didn't—"
"Andie," oh, god, Robin must be so mad. She never uses her name. "Take a breath."
She breathes.
Said breaths are loud, and shaky, and Robin's voice is firm over the sound. "Forward me the emails. I'll update the calendar. I don't love this, though."
Andie winces. "I—I know. I didn't do it on purpose."
"I know," Robin says. "But it's a lot on your plate."
What?
"You told me I should do an internship," she almost whispers. "I thought I was…"
doing what you wanted.
"I did," Robin concedes. Then, like she's putting on a second skin, something in her tone changes. Firms up: steeling herself in the face of all of Andie's muchness. "Look, we'll figure it out. I'll look at your schedule once I've got all the pieces. Can you come over for dinner?"
Andie has reading to do. But she can't say no. Not after the way she keeps upsetting Robin.
She can't.
Robin puts her in the eucalyptus bubble bath.
There's no other way to describe what happens. It's like Robin reaches in and presses the Off button in Andie's brain when she tells her You're done talking for the night, baby and her brain replies Yes ma'am.
Robin grabs her shoulders and guides her out to the big velvet chair in Robin's reading corner, points to it and says, "Sit."
Andie perches on the end, tense, and nude. She was supposed to be getting a bath. Robin pulls at her knees roughly until she's perched just on the edge of the seat, thighs immediately straining. A hand at her lower back and another at her shoulder, perfecting her posture. Those hands, then, on hers—placing them, almost delicately, on to her knees.
"Stay," her soulmate says, searches her face for just a moment. "Do not move."
Then, she stalks back to the bathroom. After a moment, the tub faucet turns on.
It's cold, in the nude, in Robin's living room. There are goosebumps all over her skin, and she feels frozen to the spot, to her position—back straight, feet flat, hands on knees.
When she looks down at herself, her nipples are tight. She doesn't feel like it's her body she's looking at: not her piercings, not her soul mark that's just a little visible between her tits, not her thighs all scarred up by a girl she used to be.
Her whole body is tense, and straining. She can't make herself relax, will probably fall if she does—the chair isn't really supporting her at all.
Robin spends a long time in the bathroom. Andie's ears and muscles strain to hear her, drawers and cabinets opening and closing, Robin puttering around the apartment—to the closet, a cabinet in the kitchen, her bedroom. Bringing things into the bathroom and never, ever, once acknowledging the girl sitting rigid, bare assed on her furniture.
Andie doesn't even realize she's stopped breathing, must've decided air mattered less than Robin at some point, until the object of her focus is standing in front of her, a sharp look on her face. "I said Up. Now."
When she stands, she gasps in a breath and her muscles are all quivery like she's been working out. She's all weak, no strength to hold herself up. She was straining that much?
Andie sways into Robin, lets herself be caught by the shoulders—lets Robin grip the back of her neck and guide her until her forehead is on Robin's collarbone.
"Mommy—"
"Shut up," Robin's voice isn't angry, isn't soft. Just is. "I said no talking. Didn't I?"
Andie huffs out a breath through her nose, distressed, and nods into Robin's chest.
Robin has turned off all the lights and lit a few candles, put on a Bluetooth speaker playing something soft, rolled up a towel to act as a pillow at the lip of the tub. She stands behind Andie and Andie watches in the mirror while her soulmate piles her locs up on top her head. It's like she's watching it all happen to someone else.
Then, Robin guides her to the bath, full of bubbles. Eucalyptus in the air. Andie stares at the water, feels tears in her eyes and has no idea why.
Why is Robin doing this for her?
Robin puts her in the bath. Gently lifts one leg until she gets it, steps into the hot—perfectly hot—water, provides unnecessary support to her other leg as Andie moves that one into the water as well. Pushes at her shoulders until she slides down, into the water. Submerged from her chest down.
A valve on her muscles, on her brain—on the goddamn waterworks—releases.
She looks up at Robin, helpless, and feels tears trail down her cheeks. Feels so vulnerable under the older woman's intense and unforgiving gaze. If Robin is surprised by Andie's tears at all, she doesn't show it.
"Close your eyes," she instructs. So Andie does.
She drives straight to Robin's after work. And she's so focused on getting there, so dead on her feet already, that she misses the text.
She enters the apartment ready to crawl on her knees and beg her Mommy to forgive her, all but throws her stuff in the foyer and is already half-apologizing when she sees her and stops. Robin has a weird little look on her face.
"What?" Andie asks, can feel all the distress in her body immediately increase, can hear it pour out of her voice. What did she do now?
"Nothing, baby, it's fine," Robin stands from where she'd been sitting, reading, on the couch. "I texted you to pick up the food I ordered us, but obviously you didn't see it. I'll go—"
"No!" It bursts out of her, almost angry, and Robin freezes, eyes wide. Andie isn't angry, though. Not at Robin. She immediately spins around to grab her bag. "No, I'm so sorry, Mommy."
Robin, as always, is all calm and reasonable. "Baby, it's fine. You had a long day, let me—"
"No," she snaps. "Let me do it." Let me fix this, at least.
If she can't do anything right, the least she can do is not burden others with her failures.
"Okay," Robin's voice is flat, annoyed. Andie winces, snatches up her bag, and rushes back out the door.
She drives to their Thai spot in a daze. It's on the way to Robin's from work. That's why she asked her to pick it up. God, she's so stupid.
When Andie returns, the air is different. Robin has boxed herself up in a way she's never done before, eyes all weary on Andie like she's a ticking time bomb.
Maybe she is.
They sit across from each other at the kitchen table, picking at spring rolls and curry. The silence isn't comfortable like it can sometimes be between them. Mostly it's making her sweat.
It's never, ever been this difficult with Robin. Andie has no idea what to do, how to fix it, how to apologize enough, in the right way.
"So," Robin isn't looking at her, is looking into her bowl of green curry. "Weekdays are now, always, like 10-hour days, for you?"
She nods. "Not counting—"
"Classwork," Robin nods. "And when do you plan on doing classwork?"
"Mostly weekends," Andie says weakly. "In between stuff and also in the evenings."
"And we can't revisit the—"
"No," on this, Andie is firm and unwavering. "I will not give up my assistantship. You cannot pay for me to go to school."
Technically, Robin probably could. Especially with only one semester left. She's not rich, or anything, but she's got a healthy savings and a 401k and a Roth IRA and a financial advisor she meets with thrice a year.
She's also got the miserable anchor that is Andie, drowning her.
Robin nods as if she'd expected as much. Looks up at Andie, wearing an expression Andie doesn't recognize, can't read. Then, like it means nothing at all, Robin says, "Guess I'll see you when I see you, then, huh?"
Robin leaves her in the bath long enough that the hot water gets lukewarm and the forgotten lunch becomes hunger pangs, and still Andie doesn't open her eyes.
She's not left there long, though, once she realizes she's getting a little cold and a little hungry. Somehow, Robin can tell what she needs when she needs it, even from a different room.
"Open and up," her voice is softer than it was earlier. Or, maybe Andie's anxiety is lower. Everything feels less like she's being held at knifepoint.
Robin dries her off with a massive, fluffy, warm towel. Fresh from the dryer. Rubs her down in shea butter, perfunctory and efficient. Slides her arms through the sleeves of a pretty pink silk robe.
"Bought this for you last weekend," Robin murmurs while she's cinching and tying it shut. "Of course, I've barely seen you since."
And she's not allowed to speak. She's not allowed to apologize. It's torture.
Robin knows this, she must know this, because her voice gets a little sterner like she wants to talk over Andie's own thoughts. "I'm so proud of you, baby girl."
She is?
"Working so hard," Robin almost whispers. She leans down and tilts Andie's face up, lips almost to her forehead when she says, "I'm so lucky to have you, aren't I?"
Then, as if she didn't just rock Andie's whole fucking world, Robin leads her to the bed. Gets them all settled in, Andie's back to Robin's chest.
"I wanna listen to my book, baby," Robin scrolls on her phone, distracted, and Andie is sort of mesmerized by the way her soulmate's knees are drawn up a little, bracketing her in like she's a princess in the highest point of the castle.
"Don't let this drop, okay?" Robin reaches around, holding a glass bowl—something she'd make cookie dough in.
What?
"Tuck your elbows in," the breath in her ear is warm, and makes her shiver. She does as instructed, lets Robin put the bowl in her hands. "Now hold this bowl, honey, and let Mommy read in peace."
When I see you turns out to be not at all for the rest of the week.
The days are long, the nights are longer, and the exchanges with Robin are short and mostly through text.
On Tuesday:
Can I send you lunch?
And it's so weird that Robin asks that it feels like a test. Like she's supposed to prove she can do it all on her own, or admit to Robin that she can't, or maybe Robin doesn't even want to send lunch she just feels like she has to?
I brought mine, thanks though
It's a lie, but there's a microwave in the museum staff lounge so she runs down two blocks to buy a frozen meal that she eats in about four bites.
Wednesday, in the evening:
How's museum work treating you?
And she hasn't understood anything she's read in the last hour, so she's eager to talk.
Fine. I like the other girl I'm working with, but she's scared of heights so I'm on ladder duty and it's making my hip joints hurt.
Bending all around, twisting up and reaching and going wherever to move spotlights onto sculptures and text panels. It's more of a strain than she'd expected.
She'd hoped for some sympathy, maybe a little bit of Robin telling her to make Hailey face her fears—something to make the way she feels like she's drowning a little less like she's drowning.
Make sure you use your heating pad
And nothing else.
She doesn't hear from Robin at all on Thursday, and is so busy that she doesn't even realize until 8pm, and only because she realizes she never checked if Robin would come to opening night. Realizes, in the same breath, that she didn't reach out to Robin either.
God, the universe really fucked up sticking Robin with her.
Friday morning she sends the text as a voice note.
"Hi, I'm driving, sorry—Are you coming tonight? I'm working it, I told them I'd circulate and make sure nobody, like, touches the art or whatever. I probably won't be able to tour the exhibit with you, but you can bring someone, obviously. I assume you probably already knew that and invited Eddie, huh? And Steve, if he wants! Not sure how much fun this will be for a 15 year old…Whatever, anyway, um…Just let me know. Okay, love you."
Robin responds on her way to work.
"Yes, of course I'm coming. And bringing Eddie. No Steve, he's busy rubbing Cheeto dust on the couch or something. Dinner after?"
Andie sends a message while she's paging books on the Industrial Revolution for a researcher, voice quiet and mouth basically on the microphone, "Okay, interested in more Cheeto dust discourse when that becomes available. Yes, dinner. Can we detour to the burger place on Main? I need red meat."
She listens to Robin's answer while she's basically sprinting to her car to get to the museum in time. "Baby, we can go wherever you want. But doesn't that place close at 9? This goes until 9, doesn't it?"
And the next message, "I checked—You're in luck, they close at 11 on Fridays. Meat gods are on your side."
Then, the last one, "Pretend I didn't say that."
And she's been all torn up all week, all yearning and aching and wanting her soulmate. But Robin's messages makes her giggle so hard on the drive to the museum that she feels a little lighter going into whatever the hell she's gotten herself into.
She doesn't get it at first.
Actually, she doesn't get it for awhile.
And then she gets a little distracted, gets kinda wrapped up in the book Robin's playing. Something fiction book about, like, space politics?
Until Robin taps her shoulder. "You're slouching, baby. Arms up right, keep your shoulders back. Good posture, there you go. Just hold it for me, baby."
And so she corrects. Becomes really, really focused on her body. Becomes really, really stressed that she's keeping the right form. Her arms hurt. Her arms hurt.
But every time she quivers even a little, Robin presses a kiss to her temple, tells her, "Just until we finish this chapter, baby."
So she holds. She listens to the book and she holds the bowl and she hurts. They definitely finish more than one chapter.
And then the hurt is overwhelming. Her arms are burning, she's sweating—she's definitely not listening to the book anymore. She doesn't have thoughts anymore—nothing except straining—then,
Pain.
Then, she swears she doesn't let go, she doesn't—but the bowl drops anyway. There's relief, maybe, she can't tell, she's too busy—
Crying.
She tries to scramble, to grab it, to fix her mistake—
But she's a princess locked up in the highest point of the castle, and her Mommy's arms wrap around to keep her there.
"Shh, you're okay baby," Robin is all tight around her, and she feels herself go limp. Safe inside her Mommy, always. "Did so good, held so perfectly for me, how could I even ask anymore of you? My perfect little space girl, doing you're best and being so lovely, aren't you?"
Robin keeps talking. Andie keeps crying.
Opening night is like being a sailboat in a tsunami and Robin is a lighthouse. Eddie helps, too, of course, if only because he keeps Robin company when Andie has no time to spare. Something inside of her always settles, knowing that Robin is just fine without her. Is maybe better off without her, honestly.
But Andie makes it through, and she's all but crawling to her lighthouse in the mostly-empty parking lot around 9:20.
"Perfect timing," Eddie's eyes are all warm and his smile is all kind. Softer than normal like he knows something she doesn't. Which doesn't bode well for the way her body and her brain are running on four cups of coffee. "I feel confident I can release the stray safely into your custody."
"Stray?!" Robin pretends to be offended, a smirk on her lips. "I'll have you know my home is right," she pokes Andie's forehead, "there."
"Well it's probably pretty deserted in there after the night your girl has had," he says dryly, wrapping an arm around Robin briefly. "So take good care of her."
Robin hums in agreement, sips at a coffee cup stamped with a giraffe on it. The shop across town that they all love so much.
He moves in and hugs Andie properly, presses a kiss to her temple and says gentle, "I am so proud of you."
Then he pulls back and grips her shoulders, give them a little shimmy while he tells her, "Be good."
"Alright," Robin starts swatting at him, "go make sure the child hasn't snuck out or thrown a house party in your absence. I know it's killing you to be away."
And he scrunches his noise and makes a "little hit" pinch with his hands that he then turns into a two finger salute. "Later, gators."
But they know him, and he them, so they make their way to Andie's car quickly. He won't leave until they're inside and the car is on.
"Keys," Robin holds her hand out. She knows better than to argue, so she hands them over immediately.
They go to the burger place on Main. It's busy busy, teenagers coming in waves from the movie theater two blocks down. But they manage to find a spot tucked into a back corner, a tiny table not truly meant to seat two people, and their server is over before they've had a chance to say a word.
"I'm Jesús and I'll be taking care of you tonight." Jesús is disarmingly pretty, all cheeky smile and curly black hair, sharp jawline. "We're pretty busy, as you can see, but don't worry I will not forget about the two pretty ladies at Table 17."
He winks—is disarmingly charming, as well. It's sweet and kind of annoying, actually, that other people seem to just walk through life so effortlessly when Andie is, like, moments away from screwing everything up all the time.
Robin snorts, "Don't worry about us, we've both done hard time in hospitality. I think we probably know all that we want if you just wanna put it all in and bring us the ticket—quick and easy, out of your curls before you know it?"
She almost never does this, Robin. She likes to sit down and make eating out a treat, to get dessert and try some sort of house-special drink (she's a sucker for a fancy lemonade), to shoot the shit with their server and get their whole life story. It's actually incredibly endearing and disarmingly charming in a way Andie actually loves.
Jesús looks relieved, a little pink cheeked, and it makes him look younger. Andie feels guilty, immediately, for being even a little bit annoyed with him.
Robin orders for them both. Smash burgers and truffle garlic fries, two Diet Cokes with lime, a water carafe in case they run out, please, and can they get two slices of cherry pie to go?
They don't talk much during dinner. Robin peels off her pickles and hands them over for Andie to add to her burger; Andie squeezes a little bit of lime into her drink and then mixes the rest, and the wedge itself, into Robin's. In the quiet of their ritual, Andie feels so safe.
So it's actually a little alarming when they get back in the car and the silence between them becomes awkward and uncomfortable again.
It follows them home, this uncomfortable stretch. It's almost tangible; she can taste the discomfort.
And it's awful, god, it's awful, when Robin closes the front door and leans against it and watches while Andie takes off her loafers. The look on Robin's face is nothing short of tortured when she says, almost whispers, "If I'm too much, And, you have to tell me. I can't just keep doing this."
It's worse—it's worse than anything she thought maybe she could've imagined for herself. So she does the only thing that a girl like her can do in a moment like this.
She bursts into tears.
When she's done crying, she thinks there's nothing left inside of her.
But Mommy says there's more.
And Mommy knows best, after all.
She's got Andie's legs open wide, got Andie's head resting on her shoulder, and she's reaching both hands down, down, down.
One wraps around her cock, and the other cups her balls.
"Mommy's gonna play with you, and finish the book, okay?" She squeezes. "You're not gonna cum until the book is over."
Robin's hands are warm and so soft—and absolutely fucking relentless. She grips her balls tight, gives them gentle taps that threaten to become slaps and Andie gasps, arches her back up and her hips away—pushing back into Mommy's hips.
"Ugh, I know, baby," she says, all condescending. "I thought about fucking your pretty hole, but we've done so much tonight, don't you think? We'll do that tomorrow, hm? Get you all stretched out for me."
She doesn't want that.
Well, she does, but—
Robin presses her thumbnail into the slit of her cockhead, makes sweet and reassuring humming noises while she just fucking tortures Andie.
"Breathe, baby," Mommy says. "We've got so much book left."
They don't talk that night. Robin seems shocked by her tears, goes into the Crisis Mode Robin, sweeping them both to bed with reassuring kisses peppering Andie's face.
You're so tired, baby. We'll both feel better in the morning. Let me hold you, baby, get some rest.
Her Mommy's arms wrap around her and she relaxes for the first time in a week. All the thoughts in her head slow, and all the ugly things she thinks just wash over her. She tucks her face into Robin's neck, breathes her in and squeezes her tight. Would crawl under skin and live inside of her forever, if she could.
And she rests. She rests.
She's crying again by the time she cums.
It feels like Robin's rubbed her raw, skin all sensitive. She's not sure if she's shrinking away from Robin's touch or arching into it.
And there's this sound she can't place.
It's not coming from the audiobook.
Is the audiobook even playing still?
And it's that thought that makes her realize.
The sound is her. Whimpering, whining, and whispering, "Please, please, please—Mommy, please."
Mommy's voice is all soft and sweet now. No more harsh rules and no more stern tones.
"You're so safe with me, baby," Mommy says in her ear. "You don't need all that school stress right now, hmm?"
"You can let it go, baby girl." Her grips get tight and tears stream down Andie's cheeks and she's cumming and her soulmate kisses her temple before she says, all encouraging, "That's right, my love. Give it to Mommy."
Robin lets her sleep well into late morning. Doesn't wake her up, barely lets her wake at all.
In fact, when Andie tries to wake up with the sun, Robin's arms tighten and she just says, "No."
It's said in such a way that Andie knows she can't disagree with. Doesn't want to disagree with. So she sleeps.
And, eventually, they wake.
For the first time in a week, nothing on Andie's body hurts. She doesn't feel the need to jump out of bed and run to her to do list. She can feel the sun through the curtains and hear Robin's old, creaky fan, and smell the peppermint scented laundry detergent Robin bought on a whim last month and actually loves.
"I know you're awake, space girl," Mommy says, lips against her browbone.
"How could you possibly know that?" Andie grumbles, not a lick of heat behind it.
Mommy laughs. "Because some part of me isn't awake until you are, baby."
It's not even a line. That's not how Robin is. She just loves Andie like it's easy to do, like she doesn't even have to try.
Andie's eyes well up with tears and her throat gets tight and she burrows into her Mommy's chest, choking out, "Mommy, I'm so sorry."
Robin freezes for just a moment, then rubs her back with firm, soothing swipes. "What are you sorry for, baby?"
It's all spilling out before she can think to filter it. "For renewing my lease and I know you're so mad about it and you must hate me for it and I can't do anything right and you're stuck doing stuff for me even though I'm failing and I just keep disappointing you and forcing you to care about me and care for me and I offer nothing in exchange and—"
"Baby," Robin yanks her away from where she's clinging to grip Andie's face in her hands. Her eyes are all big and terrified and beautiful. "Baby, is that what you think I think?"
"I—"
"Is that how I treat you?" Now, Robin looks truly horrified.
God, she keeps messing things up.
"It's what's true," Andie insists. "The universe did something awful when it gave you—"
"Shut up," Robin's expression shifts into something stern, eyes searching Andie's. Andie's mouth snaps shut. "You've worked yourself all up, haven't you?"
Andie's eyes close and her breath comes out loud and long through her nose. Something akin to a whimper sticks in her throat.
It's quiet for a moment, and then Mommy says, "Go get ready for a day at home. Then meet me in the living room. You need time on your knees. Maybe in a corner, we'll see."
Once upon a time that might've felt like a threat. But Andie knows what it means now. Maybe she is in trouble. Maybe Mommy is mad at her.
But it's okay. Or, it will be.
Mommy knows how to fix it.